


landmark

by paeonelle



Series: the shapes of sounds [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Backstory, Bullying, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, High School Hijinks, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, additional tags to be added yo!, aka the one where i admit peter b fully has my ass. and my heart, but in what?? i'll never tell ;))), maybe ooc??? idk, takes place in the 90s mostly, the usual y'know, we don't need anymore teenage peter parker but omg i couldn't NOT yknow, who asked for teenaged peter b??? me lmao, will skip to later on lmao, yeah ://
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paeonelle/pseuds/paeonelle
Summary: Peter B. Parker. The nerdy orphan stereotype sitting in the back of the classroom.You can’t say anything though—you’re the school’s resident oddity, having moved from some "ass-backwards" Midwestern city to Queens, New York.In any other instance, this would be the perfect setup for a “high-school sweethearts” type romcom, but your life is far from perfect, and it’s about to get even worse with him around.[ peter b. parker/reader ]





	1. that's the way it goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Degenerate, counter-culture, crying socialist_   
>  _Hip-to-lazed crazed abstractionists_   
>  _We're weird, but Lord knows we're trying_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Sun Veins/Way It Goes"—Hippo Campus // "Give Yourself a Try"—The 1975

You **hate** high school. Just like in the movies, everything’s all just one big stereotype or cringy cliché after the other.

Take right now, for instance. As you drag the ratty, gross, once milk-white now piss yellow converse you’re wearing down the ironically milk-white halls of Midtown High School, you spot several groups of people huddled in the halls. There are the jocks picking on a nerd, the goths, the rich bitches, the preps. Cliché after cliché. And the worst part about it all?

That’s right! You’re don’t fit in with _any_ of them.

You’re the new kid, the one from some ass-backward but relatively large city in the Midwest that in one way or another, got incredibly lucky and was awarded a full-ride scholarship to attend the one and only _prestigious_ Midtown High of Queens, New York. Your father—your poor, perpetually overworked father—nearly had a heart attack at the news a year ago and pulled triple shifts at his multiple jobs just to afford it all. You remembered it well—coming home most nights to an empty house and a lazy German Shepard that kept you company.

You’re well aware of the nature of your new life, and you hate it.

You hate the stares everyone’s giving you, from your lemonade-hued converse to the paint-splattered overalls covering most of you, to the admittedly alright looking black long-sleeve you’ve got underneath. You hate the things they’re mumbling, from “ _oh look, the newbie’s poor_ ”, to “ _who let the bumpkin in"_ , and finally (the one that gets under your skin the most), _“we’re not in Kansas anymore_.” You're not even  _from_ Kansas!

You grit your teeth and clench your fist. You hate this.

You don’t notice you’re stomping down the hall at this point before you stop at your designated locker. With a couple of angry whips of your entire right arm, the lock clicks open, and you’re greeted with the sight of an empty wall locker with two shelves. Will you give a shit and decorate it? No. Will you actually use it some other time than now? No. But you need  _something_ to take your sudden anger out on, and the locker’s gonna have to cut it.

Someone’s standing at the locker beside yours, meekly digging through it, but you pay them no mind.

Well. At least until they’re being slammed up against it.

“Would ya’ look at that? Leeds’s got a prime spot with the newbie,” A voice growls to your left. Everything in your mind is telling you not to look, but you spare a glance at the poor sap that’s being forced to eat the metal of the locker. He’s a gangly and awkward blonde with freckles and a sweater vest on. Not that the bully’s dressed any better, what with the giant Midtown Letterman’s jacket he’s got framing his form. The kid spares a pleading glance at you, and you glance at the bully, who sneers.

You manage a silent sigh through your nostrils and turn back to your locker to shove something, _anything_ into it. Leeds whimpers as the bully cackles.

The bully peels him from the locker then, swinging him over his shoulder while loudly declaring that the poor guy’s got a date with one of his friend’s lockers. You could only imagine. Without looking back at the poor kid, you shut your locker, your earlier anger fading into sadness. You could’ve helped that kid.

...But honestly, _how_? You’re the newbie. Fresh-meat. You’ve got no rep, and everyone thinks you’re some hick even though you grew up in a semi-highly populated city.

You swing your backpack back over your shoulder as the rest of the hall goes back to normal, including the teachers who had seen the whole thing. The bell signaling your first class of the day goes off, and you’re almost trampled by a surge of students suddenly rushing to get to class. Several students push you back into your locker, your arm slamming up against the combination lock and causing you to cry out.

In just a few seconds the mob is gone, and you’re left with a potentially bruised forearm and anger boiling right at your temples.

Oh yeah.

You **fucking** hate high school.

* * *

 

Chemistry is your third class of the day and you’re barely awake for it. Professor Moore is a droning, fully disinterested lecturer, the kind where you aren’t sure if they’re tenured or if they’re just doing it for the stereotype. Your eyes droop and you swear you’re only out for maybe like two seconds before you catch a whiff of something absolutely _nasty_.

“Ah, Mr. Parker,” Professor Moore grumbles, setting down the life-sized model of the newly discovered element Copernicium, “So nice of you to join—what in the blazes is that _smell_?”

There’s a kid standing in the doorway of the classroom, slouching forward as his hands clutch at the straps of his nearly overflowing backpack. He’s absolutely drenched, and the face he’s making only reminds you of a grouchy cat left out in the rain. A few kids around the room start laughing at him, some louder than others, while the majority pinch their nostrils closed and groan in disgust.

“ _Ugh_ , Pee-pee Parker actually smells like piss,” Some girl whines.

The guy sitting next to her lets out a hearty bellow, “Then I guess Flash's nickname for him sticks!”

Your classmates roar with laughter, and you scrunch your nose. Assholes. Cruel, cliched _assholes_. Maybe it’s because you’re the only one not laughing, but when you glance back over to this Parker kid, he’s got this...weird  _look_ on his face.

That's when you realize that the chair beside you, in the very back of the classroom by the window that—of course—doesn’t open properly, is empty. And that it’s the _only_ empty chair in the entire room. Your eyes dart back up to the Parker kid and you catch him grimace in a half-assed apology before reaching to grab the syllabus off of Professor Moore’s desk. The Professor only crinkles his nose once the kid gets near, waving the element model at him as if to shoo him off.

“Mr. Parker, might I remind you that the first day is  _not_ the day to be showing up late?”

Each kid Parker passes leans as far away from him as they can, kind of like a cruel teenaged-version of Moses parting the Red Sea. Only if Moses wasn’t leading the Israelites to salvation and more like a death of being suffocated by the stink of shit. Poor guy.

Parker drops into his seat beside you with a wet _plop_ , and you exhale out of your mouth before instantly regretting it. “I’m so sorry Professor. Flash said I had a date with the cafeteria’s bathroom, and I just couldn’tmiss it for a second. You know the fourth stall? Her name’s Sheila and her bowl is _huge_.”

There are a few snickers from around the room, including yourself. Professor Moore only rolls his eyes, but you can tell he’s amused behind the stern face he puts on. “Watch it, Mr. Parker. I’m not afraid to hand out my first detention slip on the first day of classes.”

Parker nods with a grin, sitting up straight in his chair and folding his hands together like a smart-ass teacher’s pet. You can’t help but giggle a little, and when he glances at you from the corner of his eye and smirks back, you _tsk_ at him. Professor Moore launches back into his lecture about Copper-what-ium and even though it actually smells like ass beside you, you find yourself paying more attention. Huh. Maybe it’s the smell that woke you up.

For some reason, you can’t shake the feeling it isn’t just that.

You wait until class is halfway finished—when the Professor lets a television set on a rolling cart finish his lecture for him while he scribbles in today’s crossword. Some kid in the front is snoring loudly, some airheaded girls are squealing over the texts they were getting on their shiny new flip phones, and several boys were playing paper football against the back of the snoring kid’s head. Seeing your chance, you let your eyes slide over to the kid beside you without turning your head to actually _look_ at him.

...He’s pretty scrawny, all things considered. Somehow you notice how prominent his elbows are, and you’re too weirded out by it to dwell on it. His hazel eyes are dull thanks to the video playing up front, but they’re pretty impish from what you've seen of him thus far. The best (or maybe funniest) thing about him is his hair—which is styled like Leo DiCaprio’s in that one movie about human-eating alien furballs or whatever—coupled with his oversized wayfarer-styled glasses. He kinda reminds you of a male Velma. Just maybe a little, teeny-weeny amount more adorable. Your eyes fall from him and you manage to keep your snicker down to a shake of your shoulders. Of course you got saddled with the cliched nerd.

Your eyes flick to him once more. He’s looking back.

You grin and lean slightly to your side. He mimics it for a hot second before remembering how much he must stink. “Yo.”

He tries to play cool and tips his chin up at you, “‘Sup?"

You pause for dramatic effect. “You know? You smell like raw ass, dude.”

His eyes blow wide as he quietly gasps and holds a hand over his heart, “No!”

“Yep. Like a dog’s turd in the summer after he’s had constipation.”

“Quiet back there,” Professor Moore calls out as a warning from behind his newspaper.

Parker glances back at the Professor and sticks his tongue out before leaning in closer despite himself, “Just you wait. You think the cafeteria’s bathroom smells bad on me, wait ‘til Flash decides to dump me in one of the boys’ locker room toilets. You’ll be _begging_ for the dog’s turd back.”

You grin just as the bell for next period goes off. Parker’s up out of his seat in an ironic flash, but not before turning and giving you some sort of awkward hand wave...thing. You’re left a little stunned as you raise your hand in solidarity and run it through your hair once he’s out of sight. There’s the leftover stench of toilet water wafting through your nostrils, but you can’t help but stand stock still and think.

That Parker kid has seen some shit. Literally.

….Maybe this school wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who just saw itsv for the second time this week b!!! don't @ me pls lmao
> 
> also if you know where the name of this fic and the chap title comes from, just know i love u :)))
> 
> ((also also i used ned leeds from the comics i hope that doesn't confuse anyone))
> 
> (((also also also peter might be ooc but i couldn't help myself from writing snarky teenaged peter)))


	2. vines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Failed by design, slow your pace down to mine_   
>  _Watch my back, heave a sigh_   
>  _Keep it safe, make it right_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Biking (Solo)"—Frank Ocean//"Vines"—Hippo Campus

The rest of the day flies by after Chemistry. Your lunch hour had followed, and you got to witness that Flash kid who dunked Parker (and as you quickly remembered, shoved that poor Leeds guy into a locker) torment yet another kid by shoving his face into his food. Did the teachers just not do anything about this jerk? Whatever. As long as he stayed  _far_  away from you, you’d be a-okay.

After lunch was Trig, and after Trig was Language Studies. Humanities followed, but that was really just a lesson in listening to Flash and a pretty blonde hurl insults at your teacher and her lesson plan. You almost broke your pencil when you saw how red in the face she got with embarrassment when the blonde asked just how un _fuck_ able teachers had to be in order to want to hang around children all day instead of other adults. At least Professor Mann (...geeze louise) had the metaphorical balls to send her ass to detention. Thankfully, nothing else noteworthy happened in Humanities before the final bell. The rest of your day couldn’t even come  _close_  to beating how interesting your Chem class was, even with its ironic boring professor.

You’re now riding your bike home. Buses were always crowded, loud, and smelled a bit sour, and you didn’t particularly need to be reminded of stench after Parker’s incident. So what if you were carelessly biking in a new place that was known for its shitty driving? If anything happened—god forbid you _died_ —at least it would still be with a shred of your dignity still intact.

For all that you knew of Queens just from seeing it in television and movies, it pretty much lived up to the standard. The famous borough of New York is packed to the brim with people, buildings, and an odd amount of foliage for a city. It’s lively, with kids zipping around irritated business professionals, the always-present hot dog vendors, and the generic busy crowd of shoppers and walkers. Thank god this city has bike lanes, even though they’re almost as crowded as the sidewalks. You swerve around a panting older man on his own bike to take a right on 46th.

It only takes a few minutes for your neighborhood to come into view, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. Good thing you were paying attention when Dad dropped you off this morning. You’d hate to be  _that kid_ , lost in a big city on your first day and causing trouble like one Kevin McCallister (or so you’ve heard, you hadn’t bothered to watch the second movie after Dad purposefully spoiled the entire plot of the first  _Home Alone_ when you wanted to go see it at the movie theater, that  _bastard_.)

Slowing down as you enter your new neighborhood, you take it all in. There are other kids out playing and riding their own bikes in their front yards and on the sidewalks, some younger and some even older than you. There are parents out on porches, dogs running around, cats laying by front doors. It all paints a picture of back home in the midwest, and it makes something inside of you deflate.

...You kinda miss it. Despite this moment in time feeling exactly like your hometown, you know there’s a lot of differences between here and there. You miss your old house, a sprawling ranch-style home set on two full acres of land. You miss your friends: the spitfire Mae, the quiet Bella, and the hospitable Basil. You miss the fresh air.

Thank god you miss the car currently barreling down the street while you're deep in thought, too!

With a yelp, you swerve off into the nearest front yard and dive off of your bike as an asshole in a vintage Camaro blares his horn and flips you off. Everyone that you were observing earlier doesn’t even bat an eye at you eating shit right in front of them and continues doing whatever they had been before. With a grunt, you rise onto your elbows, spitting out a wad of grass and dirt as you do. You don’t even get to look up to see who's poor yard you ruined before a tongue is absolutely drenching you in saliva.

“Ah,  _Odin_ , stop!” You push away the snout of your German Shepherd to get him off of you, but utterly fail when he moves to sit on top of your back and continue licking at your neck. “Geeze….Man’s best friend, my ass.”

A shadow casts itself over your eyes, and you look up to see your Dad grinning down at you with an outstretched hand. “ _Language_ , kiddo. I can see today went well for you, huh? You’re a real New Yorker already!”

“What are you talking about,” You question incredulously as he pulls you out from under your canine companion.

“I saw that asshole in the Camaro almost run you over. Isn’t that a New Yorker thing? That everybody driving is all  _Need for Speed_? And every pedestrian is like the power-up thingies in  _Super Mario Kart_? Right?”

For a moment, you just level your dad with a hard stare. “ _Please_ don’t ever say those words in front of me and Odin ever again.” You shake your head as you grab your backpack and walk up the porch steps into your new home, Odin at your heels. 

Well, even if it wouldn't have been as dignified as you wanted, if you  _had_  died just a minute ago, you wouldn't have had to hear whatever _that_ was come out of your dad's mouth.

 

* * *

 

You’re busy scanning through your Humanities textbook (Economics! Globalization! Philosophy! Snore!) later that night when you hear Dad call your name for dinner. You shout back that you’re on your way, but don’t budge an inch thanks to Odin laying on your feet.

“Odin, bud,” You grunt while wiggling your trapped toes, “ _Dinner_!”

His ears perk up when he hears Dad fill his bowl downstairs, and with all the energy of the two-year-old pup he is, he darts from your feet and races out of your door. You shake your head in amusement, hissing all the while at the faint sting his nails left when they scratched up against your ankles and feet. Following Odin’s lead, you also race out to the stairs, but pause and decide to slide down the railing like you’ve seen on T.V. You spot Dad watching with a shit-eating grin as you do so, sticking your tongue out before you botch the landing and stub your big toe on the banister.

“That’s what you get for trying to be slick,” Dad singsongs, setting two plates on either side of the tiny square dining table he dragged you out a few summers ago to build together. ( _“Builds character!_ ”)

You huff and cross your arms, “I totally nailed that landing and you know it.”

You ignore the throbbing of your big toe. He smirks and simply shrugs in surrender. You skirt around him and grab two cups from the cabinet, filling them up with water from the fridge—not the sink, you aren’t barbarians—and setting them next to your plates. Dad’s already sitting at his chair, tapping on the table with his fork and knife in either hand. Shaking your head in disapproval, you plop down into your own seat.

“I thought I raised you with better table manners, young man,” You chide impishly.

He kicks his socked feet up on the table with a grunt—and a few pops of his joints, but you won’t throw more salt into  _that_ wound. “Nah, old kid of mine. I live by my own rules.”

You spot dirt on the fabric of his soles and grimace, pushing them off, “ _Gross_ , dad.”

He shrugs, “What? Shoes are old school. Socks are where it’s at.”

“Those socks are gonna be old school if you keep that up.”

It isn’t even quiet for a second before you both let out similar chuckles. Once you die down, you glance over at the food your father has so lovingly cooked for you. He’s gone to one of his personal favorite dishes for tonight—a true man's meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. Such a stereotypical dad thing to cook. You scoop up your fork and dig in happily.

“So,  _kid_ , how was your first day at Midtown High,” Dad asks after a few bites, raising his hands and shaking them like a cheerleader’s pom-poms with a large grin, “Or, as I like to call it, the super-duper elite school for my super-duper smart one?”

“Ugh, cut the enthusiasm, please. Not even ten minutes in and I watch some kid get scooped up by the school bully to get shoved into a locker. During my last period, I heard that the teachers hadn’t even noticed until after lunch.”

Dad cringes, “Yeesh. Thank god I had these—“

“—If you say these guns and proceed to flex your noodle arms, I will leave this table and jump out of the nearest window,” You retort, shoving a forkful of mash into your mouth with a glare. Odin, having finished eating, comes up beside you and sits with his head in your lap, pitiful eyes watching the utensil leave your mouth. Such a glutton, that one. You glare down at him too, but he just blinks.

“I was totally gonna say these  _babies_ and point to my absolutely  _ripped_ thighs and calves,” Dad matches your glare for a few seconds before smiling, “I was a coward back then, believe it or not. Ran every chance I could. Anyway. Didn’t ask to relive my glory days, so go on.”

You set your fork down and shrug. “I dunno. Everything else was pretty normal. That same bully dunked this nerdy kid in my chemistry class in the toilet.”

“A swirlie?  _No_!”

“Yep. He smelled exactly like Odin’s morning breath. I almost  _died_ in Chemistry, Pop.”

He snorts, “Well, at the very least your professor could  _break down_ your cause of death. I bet it would be made up of a whole lot of... _gases_.”

You nudge his calf with your foot in annoyance. “I beg you, dad, please stop. Anyway, he sat down beside me, and I told him he smelled like a constipated dog’s turd in the dead of summer, and he told me that I should ‘ _just wait until Flash_ ’—that’s the bully’s name, I guess—‘ _dunks me in the boy’s locker room toilet_ ’. He said I’d be begging for Flash to dump him in the cafeteria’s again.”

(Looking back on it, that kid was actually pretty funny on the spot...) You genuinely laugh upon remembering his comment on the toilet named “Sheila” and her huge bowl. Dad raises an eyebrow at you and levels his greasy fork with your line of sight, causing you to calm down in confusion. From beside you, Odin sits back on his haunches and you can see his pupils dilate in want at the food dangling off. You push his snout away from your lap, but he merely bats your hand away with his nose and huffs in retaliation.

“... _You’re not making friends on the first day, are you_?”

You sputter, gesticulating in wild motions that have no chance of convincing your father that you weren’t doing  _exactly_ just that. “I am not! He _had_ to sit by me, Dad! I might go to one of those yuppie prep schools with bean-bags instead of chairs now, but we were definitely  _not_ playing musical chairs. …Do you know how  _dangerous_ that would be, playing musical chairs with  _bean-bags_?”

Dad isn’t convinced. ( _Told you_.) With a sigh, he crosses his arms and leans back into his chair. “Thirteen years...thirteen years of raising you on your own, and you’ve resorted to—to  _this_.” He looks toward the ceiling and howls your mom’s name in sorrow. “I failed you! Our sixteen-year-old has failed us both, but I! I have failed  _youuuu_!”

He slumps over beside his plate, fork dangling in his hand off to the side. Odin sees his chance and chomps down on the piece of ketchup-plastered beef-goodness there, tail waving happily as he trots off in sweet, sweet victory. It’s impossible for you to hold back your laughter when Dad scoffs from his place on the table. He slowly sits back up, chuckling all the while. “Look at you, making friends already,” He practically gushes, reaching across the table and gently pressing his fist into your shoulder, “Is he like everyone else? A tired and tried cliché?”

You raise your hand and flip it back and forth at the wrist, “He’s a nerd with giant glasses  _and_ a middle part. If anything, he’s a little bit more tolerable.”

“You know, that haircut’s all the rage right now. Don’t Leonardo DiCaprio and Johnny Depp have it?”

“Yeah, sure, but this kid is no DiCaprio or Depp. Plus, do you even know what that hairstyle is called?” You lean in, “The  _curtains_.”

Your dad absolutely loses it. “God, I show you  _The Breakfast Club_ before you go to high school and you walk around like everyone and their actions are defined by a single stereotype. You gotta let that go, kiddo. Maybe this—“

“Parker,” You supply, setting your fork on the table once more and your chin in your hands.

“— _Parker_ kid isn’t just the nerd. And maybe the kids who bullied him aren’t just bullies. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they probably are, and they’re probably complete dicks, but...you know what I mean.”

Your eyes drag down to the table, noticing the odd chips and scratches here and there. You don’t really have anything to say back to that. Thinking about those sorts of things were only a bit out of your range; you’re a teen, sure, but you aren’t stupid. Still. It’s kind of easier putting everyone in your new school into a box, a generalized framework. That way you wouldn’t want to make friends with the people you knew would hurt you. Everyone back home had been one set way or another—most friendly, others rude, but never both. They had to be like that here, too.

Right?

Your father sets a hand on your shoulder from behind you, having stood and grabbed both of your plates to set them in the dishwasher while you thought to yourself. You turn in your seat and tilt your head to look up at him, and he smiles back down at you. “You’re too young to be thinking that cynically of people, kiddo,” He says, “Lighten up a bit and give that new school of yours a chance! It might just end up surprising you, okay?”

You nod, letting the corners of your lips curl upward just a tad, “Okay.”

 

Even later, you lie in your bed facing the window, Odin stretched out in front of you and snoring away. The moon shines brightly from beyond your home, stars shimmering. You hear your door open with a squeak, your dad’s shadow bathing over you. Slowly, he rounds the frame of your bed and sets a hand on your hair, moving the strands from your face.

“Came to say goodnight. Hopefully, this doesn’t count as one of your clichés or whatever.”

You roll your eyes, moving to lie fully on your back as you glare up at him. He holds his hands up in surrender with a grin before pressing sloppy kisses to your forehead and the side of Odin’s head. Your German Shepherd jolts at this and stares at your dad blankly, causing the both of you to giggle like children. He stands once more and wishes you goodnight with a ruffle of your hair.

He’s almost out the door before you hesitantly call him out. You roll your head to the doorway and whisper, “Was mom an optimist or a cynic like me?”

The sigh that leaves him makes him deflate, and he looks almost ten years older. Dad kicks a foot out in front of him, crosses his arms, and leans against the doorframe. Silence washes over you two for a few awkward moments, and just as you’re about to open your mouth to take it back, he speaks.

“She saw the good in people, sure,” He begins slowly, mulling over the words once, twice. “But she wasn’t blind to the worse parts of the world. She donated, she volunteered, but they never got her for too long. She had a career to cultivate and a family to nurture. At the end of the day, she just wanted us— _you_ —to be happy. It’s a damn shame the world didn’t feel the same way.”

His words sound choked up. You feel a little guilty for being on the opposite end of the spectrum. As soon as he’s gone you’re on the carpet floor of your bedroom, digging underneath your bed for an old shoebox. Once you grab it, you flick the lid off, reaching inside for the only picture of your mother you owned, the same one you couldn't even hope to remember being a part of.

Mom's grin is tremendously wide as she holds your three-year-old self, though you have a feeling she must have been in pain behind that facade. That alone is enough to make you feel like your dad did just minutes ago, but you know that his sadness was (and still is) leagues greater than your own. You sigh, push the shoebox back under your bed, and curl underneath your sheets once more right beside Odin. He exhales just as heavily as you wrap your arms around him, the picture still in your hands.

You study it until your eyes droop closed for the final time that night, and you’re still clutching onto it tightly when you wake the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to all you lovelies that commented, hit me with kudos, bookmarked, and subscribed!!!  
> i'd have kids with all of you  
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> ...too soon??
> 
> a serious (kinda, i mean i had to add in your dad as a source for your smartass mouth) chapter!! i'm kinda iffy about it still, but my muse is already wanting to move on lol!! (probably because i wasn't writing pb lmao)
> 
> (( stick around: we'll be back to your regularly scheduled high school hijinks after the break ))


	3. cool patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey kid! (yo!) You're getting picked on in school_   
>  _The other boys! (huh!) They say you just ain't cool_   
>  _Well, that's bullshit! (yeah!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Cool Patrol"—Ninja Sex Party//"White Teeth Teens"—Lorde

One more day.

 _One_ more day, and you can finally kiss goodbye to your first week at Midtown!

Surprisingly, Friday came quicker than you thought it would have. There wasn't anything special that happened in-between now and Monday, and you're sort of surprised the rest of the week was still a blur. Tuesday morning wasn't anything to scoff at—you made it through the halls without being as overtly stared at as you were on your first day. Maybe you had lost your charm as the newest kid in this stupid school, kinda like how the zoo lost its charm once you grew up and realized that the captive animals wouldn't be able to last too long in their natural habitats.

Yeah.

Anyway. You made it to your locker on Tuesday without a problem and waited for that Leeds kid for a good ten minutes before the first bell. Dad's words from the night before were ringing clear in your mind, and you had intended to at least introduce yourself to him properly in order to start some kind of a friendship....or lockermate-ship. Unfortunately, Leeds never showed. You figured he must have written you off as a bad luck charm already and trudged to your morning psychology class. At least Professor Kelly had made you and the rest of the class laugh at Freud, and no-one messed with you at lunch.

Chemistry would have been more fun if Professor Moore hadn't announced he had found the seating chart he had misplaced before school on Monday. You were actually kind of looking forward to sitting next to that Parker kid again, and as fate would have it, you would have absolutely no way of interacting with him. Moore had sat your unlucky ass in the front and his in the very back. Looks like that way of meeting a new person (who you actually could have considered cool, too!) was out. Sigh.

Wednesday and Thursday passed without any other incident; there was no sign of Leeds and Parker didn't come up to talk to you before or after Chem at all. You went to school on time and left as soon as the final bell let you out of your last class of the day in response. You got to glimpse Flash Thompson (turns out that really _was_ his real name) and his dumbass groupies terrorize almost every geeky-appearing kid they came across, and you learned how to stay out of their way because of it. Surely they knew you existed—Flash _did_ sit behind you in Humanities once this past week—but for some reason, they weren't messing with you. Wasn't the new kid always the stereotypical fodder for these bullies?

_"Maybe these kids aren't just the bullies."_

"Maybe not to me, Dad," You mumble, parking your bike at the lock, "But they sure as shit are to everybody else."

Whatever. You wouldn't complain. Today's Friday (T.G.I.F., right?) and you're currently eight hours from the weekend. You can't wait to spend it with Dad and Odin riding the subway and exploring the city. As much as you were against moving to the Big Apple from home, you had to admit that you were pretty excited to explore. Maybe you'd get to see the giant piano from _Big_! You and Dad would suck playing "Chopsticks", but hey, you could always at least try!

Swinging a leg over your bike, you settle down on a knee to lock it to the designated area. There's always at least three others here, and you're surprised there aren't more. Traffic was an absolute ass here. Oh, well. That was a different observation for another day. You shrug your backpack higher on your back after you finish fumbling with the lock and walk into the school to get this week over with.

A deep yawn escapes you as you walk the halls of Midtown before first period for the fifth time this week, and you make no move in covering it. No one really cares at this point. Hey! You've been fully accepted into the melting pot of high school. _Score_.

You scoff at your internal monologue as you round the hall, then immediately stop as you spot a figure at the locker beside yours. It's the Leeds kid! An unconscious smile takes your face as you realize that it's actually him. You're kinda glad he's alright, and that he's decided to stop by his locker again. He bends over to grab a multitude of magnets and those wire shelves to decorate his locker, and you continue to loiter in the hall, watching.

...In a totally non-creepy, non-objectifying way. (At least that's what you hope.)

Since you haven't seen hide or hair of this kid in four days, you finally look him over. Gangly doesn’t even come close to accurately depicting him. Leeds is tall, sure, but he probably only breaks 90 pounds when he’s carrying that 15-pound backpack of his. Easy pickings for a bully. You huff. He wasn't anything close to your friends from back home, but you couldn't see him hurting even a fly out of pure necessity. He _also_ doesn't happen to be your first choice in a friend at this stupid prep-school, but how does the saying go? Oh yeah, _you_ _get what you get and you don't throw a fit_.

(That's honestly bullshit. You and Dad have seen enough older customers hound poor sales associates on not being able to use _expired_ coupons to fully render that statement null and void.)

Speaking of Dad, his words from before come back to your active conscious the longer you stand to stare at your nerdy locker-mate. Maybe he wasn't referring to this particular nerd, but you figure the sentiment stands all the same. If only Dad could see this one now. You cross your arms before scuttling out of the way of a (surprisingly familiar-looking) short, brunette-haired girl with bangs like Winona Ryder's in _Edward Scissorhands_. You almost want to comment on how well they fit her face, but she's already halfway down the hall when you think of the comparison. Oh well. Maybe another day. You set your sights back on Leeds. For now, you've got someone else to contend with.

Balling your fists and breathing in deep, you waste no time in stomping up to him like some sort of deranged elephant. Apparently, that’s the exact opposite of what you should have done because the kid nearly jumps out of his skin and curls himself into a little ball on the floor when you tap on his shoulder out of nowhere.

“Flash! I’m sorry for what I did on Monday, I promise I didn’t mean to stink up Liz’s locker!”

The hell? You bend over at the waist, staring him down. “What are you talking about?”

He seems to grasp that you aren’t a hulking bully with a terrible Letterman’s jacket just from the sound of your voice and moves his arms away from his face to glance up at you. He sighs in relief as you try on what you hope is a friendly smile, and takes your hand when you reach out to help him up. (He really does weigh almost nothing! It's like picking a sheet of paper up off the ground!)

“What are you doing, newbie?” Leeds questions, turning back to his locker and setting his wheeled backpack at the bottom. You hold back a derisive snort. “If Flash spots you talking to me he’ll start picking on you too."

You laugh out loud this time, “So like I'm a nerd by association? Yeah, whatever, like I give two shits. And don’t call me newbie.” You tell him your name and hold out your hand for a shake, grinning all the while.

Leeds takes one, two, _three_ double-takes from your hand to your face. You feel like the whole student body is watching with bated breath, and you’re actually surprised to see that that isn’t true when you glance around.

“...Not gonna bite. Honestly, my arm’s getting tired, so if you could, y’know, shake my hand or whatever, that’d be cool.”

That gets him to smile back at you and take your hand. It’s clammy (not like you were expecting anything else) and warm at the same time, and you think he’s too excited to have someone on his side for once to notice the way you swipe your hand over the back of one of your thighs. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, newb-ah, yeah. Nice to meet you. I’m Ned.”

Someone calls out Ned’s name from down the hall, and before you can even look to see who it is, Ned places his hands on your shoulders and pushes you out of the way. With a yelp, you’re tripping over one of your feet and plummeting to the linoleum floor below, hissing when your funny bone throbs behind layers of skin and muscle.

Great. _Now_ the whole student body is looking at you.

Whoever called out Ned’s name must not care about you, as they start harping on Ned for being late to the last computer class meeting. You blink angrily from your spot on the floor, eyebrows furrowed. What were you, chopped liver? Honestly, you sort of preferred the treatment you were getting Monday. At least you were being treated like an actual human and not a human-sized hallway speed bump!

There are footsteps pounding on the tiled floor of the hall in an instant, and someone drops to their knees beside you without hesitation. It takes you a second to focus on them—scarily enough, you _don’t_ remember hitting your head on your way down—but once you do, all you can do is _tsk_. What a coincidence! It's that Parker kid from Chem!

“How many fingers?” He asks you, wiggling his hand two centimeters from your face.

You roll your eyes so hard you swear you can see God and swat three ( _suck on that, asshole_ ) fingers away from you. “Ha. Ha.”

“Look, as a professional consultant for the bullied population at Midtown, I have to say you picked a terrible person to bully you,” Parker chuckles, knocking his fist into your shoulder, “Ned Leeds? A gust of wind could knock that kid over. You could do better and I’m ashamed in you, newbie.”

“Don’t call me that,” You groan and set a hand on your forehead. “Or should I also call you Pee-pee Parker?”

He grimaces, but the grin on his face somehow never wavers. “How about Peter?”

You nod, supplying your own name. He holds a hand out to you to help you up, and the irony of being in the opposite position you were just in a few minutes ago is not lost on you. Students walk on by all around the two of you, almost as if you tripping hadn’t been a major inconvenience—you _were_ laid out like a bear-skin rug in the middle of the hallway, of course.

Just unfortunately not for Burt Reynolds to pose naked on. _Sigh_.

Peter turns to Ned and gives him a look that absolutely screams "what the hell" as you grab your backpack from the floor and stick your arms through the straps. Although you wished you had hit your head hard enough to acquire amnesia, you’re glad to see him actually look a little pissed. The taller boy looks pretty sorrowful too, so there’s that. Whoever had called him and spooked him earlier is gone now, and you have an inkling that they left as soon as they could upon seeing you rise from near death. Your eyes roll on their own accord. There goes that attempt to make a friend.

After Peter is done giving Ned **The Stare** , he turns back to you with a beam stretching his face. There's an admittedly ugly sound coming from your mouth immediately after you set your eyes on it. It's way too early to be that happy. Plus, you never noticed earlier this week, but this kid was shorter than you by at least an inch. You weren't a basketball player or anything, but _man_ , you were expecting him to at least be a little taller. You almost want to tell him all this to wipe that smile off of his face. You refrain, however, when he gives you the stink eye for your noise. This kid.

"Why did you help me up, dude? Don't you have...like, class, or whatever?" You awkwardly shuffle from foot to foot.

It's Peter's turn to roll his eyes then. "Wow. I don't even get a _'_ _Thank you, Peter, for saving my life_ '? You were laying like hallway-road-kill, friend. _Someone_ had to save you from getting trampled in your first week here, and I guess that someone had to be me. Sheesh."

"Calm down, Peewee," You mock, "I never said I wasn't grateful. I appreciate the help. But also, I _don't_ appreciate the help, because you opened your big-ass mouth and complained about me not feeding your ego. You aren't getting any free handouts from me."

Peter opens his mouth to retort, but a shout from down the hall has the two of you jump in surprise. Out of instinct, you step out away from Ned, who has dropped the books he had retrieved from his locker on his feet. The rest of the hallway has gone a bit silent, and you start to hear a loud banging from a distance. Peter groans and Ned quickly bends down to grab his books. It's just his luck, though: they slip out of his increasingly sweaty palms as soon as he closes his fingers on their spines. You move to help him, but Peter's hand shoots out to grab your wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Your mouth slacks in confusion, "Wha—?"

" _LEEDS_!"

In nanoseconds, the hall has parted for that bully Flash and an absolutely _pissed_ blonde at his side. And, as you quickly confirm, ( _yep)_ they’ve left the three of you in the middle of the hall. How even—you were standing on the side just a second ago!

Ned yelps as he successfully grabs all of his needed books and slams his locker shut. When he tries to make a hasty exit from your little trio, however, the crowd of students surrounding you maliciously blocks him. Several of them are snickering, others are watching in interest. Your shoulders sag in defeat. All those bullying classes you had to sit through and this is what you get.

"Leeds, you little punk-ass," Flash and the blonde you recognize from Professor Mann's humanities class stand in front of you, the former with his arms crossed and the latter with a pout on her face and her hands on her hips. "Stinking up poor Liz's locker on Monday. What do you have to say to her, you little shit?"

Even though they're standing in front of you, they're looking past you and Peter, matching glares directed solely on Ned. He gulps at your side, finger going to pull the collar of his shirt away from his neck. "I-I'm so-sorry, Liz! R-right?"

Liz smacks her lips together, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Sorry isn't gonna cut it, pencil-neck. Do you know how much it's gonna cost to get my locker cleaned?"

"Nothing, if you just clean it yourself," You grumble.

In an instant, all eyes are on you. Oh hell, you didn't even think you were _that_ loud. Liz's eyes blow wide for a second before she sticks a hand out and pushes Ned out of the way to step closer to you. She looks you up and down with a dull stare. "I'm sorry, but who are you? Step off if you know what's good for you, loser."

"I'm sorry, but _who_ are _you_? Who are you to be acting all high and mighty just because Ned did something to the locker that _Flash shoved him in_?"

"I'm Liz Allan," She spits, eyes narrowing (as if that'll scare you off), "And F.Y.I., your dork-pie buddy over there had a case of the nervous farts and stunk up my locker earlier this week. Look, this doesn't involve you, new kid. So _beat it_."

Flash inches closer to the three of you, his fist clenching, "Final warning, nerds."

You're about to tell this first class bitch and her lapdog off when Peter sidesteps his way in front of you and glares Liz in the face. "Cut it out, Liz. Look, Ned and I will clean your locker for you. Can you just back off and continue sucking face with Flash and the rest of the football team in the corner of Hall A, because—"

One second everything's fine, everything's normal, everything's chill and the next?

"— _Shut up, Piss Parker_!"

The next has Peter crumpling to the floor like a paper ball after Flash has slammed a fist into his eye.

"Peter!" You're on your knees in a second, uncaring of the entire student body watching. Peter whines under his breath as he holds a hand to the left side of his face, his glasses shattered on the ground below. Flash pounces on Ned next, shoving him up against the nearest locker. Liz is cackling somewhere not too far away. Some kids behind you start cheering about a fight happening in the middle of the hall, but all you can manage to focus on is Peter.

At least until someone's got you by the collar and Dean Davis is standing in front of the five of you with a glare.

"Leeds, Allan, Parker, Thompson, and [Surname]," He bellows, and you swear your ears go out from the reverb, "My office! _Now_!"

Oh, just fucking _awesome!_

 

One!

 _One_ more day of this first week at your new school, and you're getting called into the dean's office!

... _What were you saying on Monday again_?

Oh yeah. You fucking _hate_ high school!

 

 

(.... _Geeze_ , _you honestly really have to find a better way to express that_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( bullying is bullshit and it really isn't fun to write y'all, but it's the 90s and it's necessary (´･仝･｀) ))
> 
> back at it again though!! we're getting somewhere, folks! things are gonna kick into high gear pretty soon!! it's high time we get right into pete's _other_ side, eh??? (and maybe i can write him getting flash back for tormenting him huehue)
> 
> stepping away from the hippo campus "landmark" chapter titles for a hot sec, because i absolutely _had_ to include ninja sex party's "cool patrol" for one of these early chapters. every time i hear it i'm reminded of peter and one of his nerdy friends (ned....you i guess lmao)
> 
> also...if anyone wants to follow me on tumblr and get writing updates **[here](https://paeonelle.tumblr.com/)** (or not, bc i'm like stupid annoying w/my reblogs lmao)


	4. epitaph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I need nothing more than my problems_   
>  _Just let me know when you've found them_   
>  _You've got tact and I've got bravado_   
>  _I'm a ghost and you are a shadow_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Epitaph"—Hippo Campus//"Waiting Room"—Sjowgren

"...You didn't have to stick up for Ned, you know?"

"Yeah. And you sure as shit didn't have to stick up for me, dude."

"I know."

Peter's sigh is a full-body affair, starting in his head and ending in the little kick his feet give against the floor. Currently, the two of you sit in the nurse's office in waiting chairs, you with a bandaid on the bruise you had gotten from Ned pushing you onto the floor (which you didn't even know you _had_ , honestly) and Peter with a bag of ice held up to his left eye. Flash, Liz, and Ned had been the three to stick around with Dean Davis in his office getting chatty, and you feel bad for poor Ned. You didn't want to know the number of times he had been called up to the dean's office just because of those two assholes or any of their other fuckwad friends.

(Of course, you think it's absolutely _hilarious_ to know that Davis had seen the entire confrontation between the five of you. It's why you and Peter, the two nearly innocent parties, are sitting waiting to get picked up and the other three are getting hell. _Well_ , you hoped Ned wasn't.)

You called Dad ten minutes ago and he merely clucked his tongue at you when you explained what happened. You weren't the fighting type, he knew that, and was more disappointed that you hadn't come up with a better insult than 'first class bitch' regarding Liz. The nurse looked downright appalled you had the gall to say that to your father, and you laughed at the expression on her face as she continued typing up a report on you or Peter. Peter, on the other hand, had called his home a few minutes before you and had yet to get an answer. He explained to the nurse that both his aunt and uncle were most definitely working their respective jobs and most likely couldn't pick him up.

"Well," The nurse began, looking a bit strained from what you believe is utter exhaustion, "It's either a ride home now, or you wait in here for the rest of the day. I can't let you go back to class with your eye like that, kiddo. Someone needs to be supervising it."

So here you are, waiting for your Dad to come to pick you up. You'd offer a ride to Peter, but you just learned his name earlier today and you aren't sure your Dad would be in the best mood upon picking you up. (Plus, you really aren't sure if he remembered to fill the gas tank...)

You decide to fill the awkward silence once more with, "Why did you stick up for me, anyway?”

"Because you stuck up for Ned. Nobody sticks up for people like him or me. It's usually just us defending ourselves," He explains, not sparing you a single glance. "You're cool for that, you know?"

You chuckle. "I'm nowhere close to cool, dude."

"Hey, last time I checked, you weren’t the one getting called Pee-pee or Piss and getting dunked in a toilet.”

That raises a laugh from the both of you, at least before Peter winces. He hisses and adjusts the bag of ice against his face, and you can just barely make out the angry purple discoloration of the skin around his eye. He catches you staring and huffs a breath out of his nose before fully revealing it to you. The skin is puffed out like a marshmallow, completely shutting his eye for him, and the violent violet hue of it was making it worse than it already was. Unlike other shiners you had seen, the bruising is all around his eye, making him look like some kind of half-breed raccoon. You hiss in pain _for_ him.

"How's it look?"

Wincing, you hold your thumb down, "Ugly. Like if you used the charred remains of the purple McDonald's guy as eyeshadow and you just so happened to be drunk. And like, almost totally blind."

Peter looks absolutely _flabbergasted_ at this (absolutely acute) observation, rotating his shoulders and hands in huge movements and squinting at you (much like a fish, but you keep that observation saved for later), "Where in the actual _fuck_ did that come from?"

You simply shrug. "Dunno. My brain?"

He can only sputter in response, pinching the bridge of his nose before setting the ice back on his face. "Geeze Louise.”

Three seconds of silence pass. ( _Not like you’re counting, or anything..._ )

“...And his name's Grimace, friend. Get it right."

"Wow. I'm surprised you knew that."

" _I'm_ surprised you came up with that comparison. You're weird, [Name]."

You scoff, but don't continue with the little back-and-forth you've got going on, instead preferring to lean back into the plastic chair under you and hum under your breath. You know damn well how weird you are.

(And it’s actually kinda validating to hear it from someone who’s definitely in the same boat, too, but you won't stroke his ego and knock him down simultaneously after seeing him get that shiner.)

Peter is seemingly also content with leaving your conversation as is, having also leaned into his own chair and slumping his head up against the wall. He exhales from the nose rather loudly, feet idly tapping against the floor once again. You reckon the two of you must make a sight for anyone coming in or out of here: you with a large bandage right above your elbow and your hair probably looking like you got shocked, and Peter with a gnarly black eye and a pair of broken glasses dangling from his pocket.

A shadow casts on the ground of the office, the door beside you scratching against the ground with all the subtlety of a set of nails raking up and down a chalkboard. You glare at the source of the noise before spotting a familiar pair of sturdy work shoes, and let out a slight cheer when the curious face of your Dad comes into view. Thank whoever up above that he had a day off from work today. Dad turns to you and lets out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a displeased grunt.

"Yikes," He winces, scratching the back of his neck as he takes the poor state of you and Peter in, "Where's the fire, kiddos?"

"We put them out like half an hour ago, Pops. Get with the program." You stand and idly stretch, reaching for your backpack and slinging it across your back. You turn to Peter, who looks a little...lost. Your eyebrow arches just as you're about to ask him about the change in his expression when Dad rounds you and extends his hand to Peter.

"So sorry you had to get into a fight alongside my kid," He grins, "Teaching this one to fight wasn't included in the parental curriculum, and I wasn't up for the extra credit."

Peter snorts while he stands, shaking Dad's hand all the while. Your entire body seems to take part in the eye-roll you make in response. "Uh, well, we didn't actually—"

Dad waves him off, "—I know, I know. Just pulling your leg. Now, let's boogie on out of here, yeah?"

You and Peter share confused glances as the Nurse from before stands to confront your little group, having heard your entire conversation. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't allow you to take a child you aren't the designated parent or guardian of."

Dad spins around on his foot, shooting the nurse a dazzling beam. He leans back to you and Peter and smooths his hair down while whispering, "Watch and learn kiddos. This is how you turn on the _charm_."

Turning back to the nurse, Dad begins heavily flirting with her. He's halfway through a " _What's a young filly such as yourself doing around these ungrateful kids?_ " and two steps away from " _Don't you just feel underappreciated_?" when you grab Peter's hand and practically drag him out of the room, half disgusted and half amused at Dad's antics. Thankfully, neither of the two notice your little escape, and the halls leading to the front entrance of the school are completely empty. A small part of you does wish it had a few people milling about to make your escape more dramatic and match the rest of today, but hey, you get what you get, right? You exit the front doors with ease and make your way across the large concrete walkway leading into Midtown. Dad's cherry red pickup is parked right in front of the steps leading down, and Odin barks joyfully from the front seat when you call out his name.

Something wiggles in your hand as you're about to bound down the steps, and you let your fist relax. Oops. Kinda forgot you were dragging Peter along with you. Scratch what you thought earlier, you were kinda glad no-one was around to see that. Languidly, you stop with your right foot in front of your left, and swivel so that you're facing Peter halfway. You furrow your brow at him for what seems like the hundredth time in the past hour or so, and he mirrors your father by scratching the back of his neck with his free hand sheepishly.

"If you're gonna say you aren't coming with us because it's against the rules or whatever, don't even open your mouth," You warn, pointing a stern finger at his nose. "You're not gonna spend all day cooped up in the nurse's office just because Flash has anger issues and can't keep his fists to himself."

Peter chuckles darkly, "In more ways than one."  _Yuck_. "Sorry, sorry, couldn't resist. How did you know I was gonna say that? Are you secretly a witch or warlock...or whatever?"

"No," You huff, "Even though you're a total smartass, you're a smartass that sticks to the rules. Next thing I know you're gonna say you had perfect attendance before today."

The realization that hits Peter's face is so  _raw_ and full of absolute regret, and you can't help but mentally punch yourself when his shoulders slump harder than your grades your eighth-grade year. Yikes. You hope Dean Davis or whoever that was in charge of keeping the records of attendance would see that he almost literally got knocked out of attending class. You're about to say something when you hear your names being called out from the front doors.

"Parker! [Surname]!"

That girl from earlier in the hall with the blunt bangs that reminded you of Winona Ryder is currently barrelling towards the two of you, a clipboard and a digital voice recorder in her hand and a pen tucked behind her ear. She legitimately skids to a stop seconds before she can plow the two of you down, huffing and panting all the while. It takes her a moment, but she straightens herself and nearly shoves the recorder in your gaping mouth.

"Elizabeth Brant, head reporter for Daily Midtown," She chirps, "Can you two tell me anything about the fight that broke out between the two of you, Ned Leeds, Flash Thompson, and Liz Allan? Is it true it's because of Leeds having a crush on Allan? Did you really try to throw a punch at Flash, Peter? [Name], you're new to this school, why are you getting into fights this early on in your high school career?"

O- _kaaaay_. This girl is taking her job just a  _touch_  too seriously. You back up a few steps but she's not having any of that, sticking right on your toes. Peter sighs, letting the hand holding the melting bag of ice to his black eye drop. Elizabeth takes one glance at it and is immediately all over it, hands grasping at his jaw to prevent him from turning away from her. You ignore the pang of annoyance that draws your body taut from head to toe.

"This is absolutely hideous looking," She bluntly tells him, but her tone is positively awestruck. "And it was caused by Flash, yes? Crap, if only Jenny came along with me to get a picture!"

Peter ignores her question, swats her hands away, and wonders aloud, "Betty, why are you doing this?"

Her browline creases as she jabs the rounded tip of her pen into his chest before scribbling some notes down on her clipboard. "You know why,  _Pee-pee_ Parker. You and your new friend over here have made history in fighting with Flash during the first week of a new year. In my line of work, any scoop is better than none, and you dumbasses have given me the perfect one for the back-to-school drought!"

You want to knock her down a few pegs and tell her that her "line of work" is just reporting on shitty high schoolers doing shitty things, but somehow your nice side wins out. Instead, you cross your arms and smirk, "Well, considering Flash put Ned in Liz's locker, there might be something there, yeah? I mean, Pete  _did_ mention Liz has taken the entire football team to third-down if you know what I mean. A nerd might be a nice change of pace."

Betty snickers, nevertheless jotting something down. "Liz Allan would never. But it's nice to hear that even the new kid doesn't care for her toxic, plastic ass. Or Flash, for that matter!"

You catch Peter gaping at you from the corner of your eye and wink audaciously at him. There's a bright tomato red blush that blooms across his cheeks and neck in splotches here and there, and your grin only widens. Betty hums under her breath, flipping through the rest of her clipboard before turning back to you.

"Well, Parker...[ _Surname_ ], I'll be seeing you two _crazy_ students! I have a feeling this particular scoop won't go over too well with Mrs. James, so I'll scrap it for now." Betty bounds off, merely holding a thumbs up when Peter yells his gratitude at her retreating back.

Six seconds of silence pass. (Not like you're counting or anything, _yet again_.)

You break it this time, snickering under your breath, "This school is weird as shit."

"Tell me about it," Peter mumbles, tossing his bag of icy water back and forth between his hands. "Welcome to Midtown, [Name]."

Just as you open your mouth to sarcastically thank him for the warm welcome and voice your hopes and dreams for the school, you hear a large  _Bang!_ come from the front doors. Both you and Peter whip around to see Dad sprinting out of the doors and towards the two of you, the Nurse from before appearing a few moments afterward.

"KIDS! CODE RED! GET IN THE TRUCK!"

Having been through a  _Code Red_ with Dad before, you've got Peter's hand in yours and you're desperately tugging him along after you like a kid tugging a kite with a hole in it. The truck beeps twice as you jump down the concrete stairs, and you whip the door open and dive into the seat before hauling Peter in behind Odin's seat and shutting the door. You scramble forward and pop Dad's door open as he rounds the back. He jumps in, shuts the door, and the four of you are peeling away before the Nurse has even made it just ten steps past the door.

Panting in-between each word, you chirp, "Well, Dad? Are you banned from the school now for being a kidnapper?"

"Huh? Oh, no!" His eyes shine with mischief as he looks at you through the rearview. "She had me sign a waiver for Peter and said I was free to drop him off! I just wanted to be dramatic, and she was up for some antics. Can you imagine what your classmates thought, seeing us run from your school nurse?"

Huh. That's funny. You don't remember the truck being this hot. Maybe it's just you.

"Are you there, God?" You sink down in your seat until the seatbelt comes in contact with your chin, scratching it haphazardly. "Because I'd love to meet you in a few minutes."

Dad merely laughs at your dramatic ass, flipping his turning signal on. "But if you die, sweet, sweet kid o' mine, you'll miss eating at McDonald's for lunch!"

Peter snickers from beside you, and you spare him a pout before hitting him in the elbow. Alright, you _suppose_ dying of embarrassment could wait. For now, you've got greasy burgers and fries saltier than your attitude to devour. 

* * *

Because Odin has accompanied the three of you on this trip, after Dad grabs meals for the three of you (and a happy meal for Odin, even though you both know that's just code for a second meal for Dad), he decides to park at Forest Park. The windows go down, the radio is turned up just a bit, meals are divvied out, and you're content with how the day has played out so far. It isn't even noon yet, you're out of school, and you're having a rare fast-food lunch. Man. You could get used to getting into fights if it meant you were unhurt and eating at the end of it.

"Kiddo," Dad begins, biting into his burger all the while, "You aren't gonna start actually fighting, are you?"

 Well, _damn_ , there goes that plan. When did Dad become a psychic?

You shake your head as you sip your lemonade. "Nah, pops. Those dicks aren't even worth my time."

"Good, because I was actually thinking of signing you up for fighting classes. Can't have the [Surname] family reputation go down the drain because I was the one who didn't teach their kid to defend themselves."

"You'd much rather save the money for something else more important, right?" You tease, "Like a yacht."

Dad looks appalled. "No! How dare you think of me in that way, child. I'd much rather own a private jet."

You roll your eyes at him, your ears catching the sound of Peter laughing quietly in his seat. You switch your gaze over to him and find him grinning at you and Dad. Man, you wouldn't give much to know what he thinks of the two of you after the show you put on this past hour, but you're still a bit curious. He hasn't tried the door lock or jumped out of the window yet, so you figure you're in the clear. Hopefully, that means you and Dad are good company.

You catch yourself there. Hopefully. _Hopefully_? What do you care? You just met this kid earlier today, really. After this weekend, he might go back to not talking to you like before. You shouldn't care what he thinks about you and your family.

...But then again, after everything you two had been through today...!

"Earth to Me Jr.," Dad drones, snapping you out of your overdramatic thoughts, "I asked you a question."

You wave your hand in apology and to make him repeat his question. He blows you a raspberry and asks how you became acquainted with Peter if the two of you were in such good cahoots already that you were going around terrorizing other innocent students. You groan. Peter, being oh-so-darlingly helpful, chimes in and explains that the two of you shared Chemistry and just so happened to get stuck sitting next to each other, but only on your first day. Dad nods along, snapping his fingers as soon as Peter says something about getting dunked in a toilet.

"Ah! So _you're_ that Parker kid!"

Peter's eyebrow shoots up as he glances at you. You sink lower in your seat again. Okay, now dying of embarrassment can resume.

"—talked about you on Monday! I'm so glad you've taken such a shine to my kiddo, becoming friends that'll beat up bullies already!"

You take the nearest paper bag and hide your face behind it once you catch sight of Peter's shit-eating grin.

"Dad, _please_ ," You groan, "Spare him the gory details. I've got such a bad reputation already!"

Dad blows another raspberry at you and hums what you guess is the melody to Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation". In a fit of teenaged-anger, you wad up the bag in front of your face and toss it into his lap, but it doesn't do much to blow out the flames of your discomfort. Beside you, Peter merely sets a hand on your shoulder and gives you a genuine smile.

"Don't worry,  _friend_ , your reputation is safe in my hands."

You don't know which is worse: the way Dad's eyes twinkle when you glance at him through the rearview, the shaky feeling in your stomach, or the way you just  _know_ Peter whole-heartedly means every word.

You swallow nervously.

...You have to admit, Peter was pretty cool. He had a sense of humor that you weren't expecting to come from a nerd with _bangs_ , but hey, one must play the cards they're dealt. It was most likely a defense mechanism, anyway. If he really wasn't bullshitting you on the 'nobody sticks up for him' thing—and you honestly believed he wasn't considering his interaction with Ned, how you met him on Monday, and the shitshow you all had gone through just this morning—he'd need all the help he could get in that yuppie school.

Maybe, just maybe, you were the help he was looking for. He certainly glommed on to you like that was the case, after all.

A snort passes your nose as you hold your fist up between the two of you.

"Thanks,  _Pee-pee_."

He laughs, a sort of tiny chuckle that morphs into an actual, outright laugh that is made complete with his head tipping back. Your smile is involuntary. This kid. He knocks his fist into yours.

"You're welcome, _n_ _ew kid_."

"How sweet," Dad croons, revving up the engine to the truck. You just sit back in your seat again like before in the nurse's office, only this time you aren't sitting next to a poor nerd who had gotten decked for coming to your rescue. Nah, you might just be sitting next to a friend, just one week into your junior year at a new high school. You're still smiling as you realize this and turn to Peter, who is still beaming himself.

Things were looking up.

 

"With all things considered, after today's scheduled bitch of a morning, we made it out pretty okay," You drawl, crossing your arms behind your head rather cockily, "I guess...with the two of us teaming up, what could possibly go wrong?”

  


Oh, _honey_. Looking back on it, you really, really,  _really_ wished you hadn't tempted fate like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPIDERMAN, SPIDERMAN  
> DOES WHATEVER A SPIDER CAN
> 
> can he show up next chapter??  
> i think he sure can!!
> 
> (( i went back to college this past week, so updates might be a little more sporadic!! chapter 5 will come soon, i promise!! have the above chapter in a peace offering lmao! ))
> 
> also, didn't know that Betty didn't actually go to school with Pete and the gang in the comics, but I really want to use her, so here's an amalgamation of her character in the comics and homecoming! lmao


	5. disparate youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't look ahead, there's stormy weather_   
>  _Another roadblock in our way_   
>  _But if we go, we go together ___  
>  _Our hands are tied here if we stay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Disparate Youth"—Santigold//"Boredom"—Tyler, The Creator/Anna of the North/Rex Orange County

To your absolute surprise, Midtown High isn’t all that bad. Sure, you’ve only been here just barely a month, and yeah, that dickwad Flash, first-class bitch Liz (unfortunately, you really couldn't come up with a more derogatory nickname for either of them) and the rest of their groupies are a pain to experience, but your locker-buddy Ned and Peter are sort of... _refreshing_ to be around. You’ve even made some friends in your other classes to supplement them, like that strangely cool Betty girl and her newspaper friends Jenny and Blake!

Well, at least after copiously explaining that the Midwest isn’t just boring-old Kansas and hick-filled Oklahoma and that you had never even seen a full _minute_ of The Wizard of Oz.

Yeah. That got you somewhere with these New Yorkers. Go figure.

It’s now early October—October 2nd to be exact—and you remember Peter saying something about his birthday on the 10th. Coincidentally enough, that’s the same day Professor Moore’s got a field trip planned for the General Techtronics Labs (a mouthful, yes, but you'd never forget it thanks to two people, in particular, going _on_ about it in their spare time) on the east side of Queens, something you feel the whole school knows Peter’s excited for. Heh, the little nerd. You'd mock him if it weren't for Flash and his other asshole friend Seymour O'Reilly already doing so.

Well, that and the fact that you believed it to be incredibly endearing that he was geeking out over a school field trip. But you wouldn't be admitting that to him, now would you?

"[Name]," Betty slides up to you as you reach your locker, leaving on Ned's locker with a heavy smirk adorning her features. "We've got a little over a week until the nerds geek out over the labs. I'm thinking we should prank them or something, what say you?"

You scoff, grinning nevertheless, "Uh, no thanks. Dean Davis has still got it in for me after what happened last month, and I did fuck all in that situation. What are you even planning?"

"I don't know! Glue their glasses to their faces or something! They're  _so_ confident about going that even Flash has backed off, and this is prime bullying time right now."

"So...you want to prank them so they stop acting confident," You deadpan, pausing in grabbing your psychology and chemistry books, "Betty, you realize you sound like Flash? The very same guy you hate to love reporting on?"

She tilts her head to the ceiling, shutting one eye as she follows her thinking from your angle. Betty smacks her lips together in annoyance once she realizes that you're right, crossing her arms. "Okay, fine,  _killjoy_. I guess you're right. It's just weird seeing those two so...so  _happy_. It's kind of adorable, in a way..."

Smirking, you raise an eyebrow and shut your locker, laughing as she sputters at your expression. She hisses that she  _definitely_ does  _not_ see either Peter or Ned attractive  _in any way, shape, or form_ _,_ and you can't help but laugh harder when the two of you turn around and spot Ned blushing a few feet away. You hurriedly excuse yourself to get to Professor Kelly's psychology class, skipping off even as you hear Betty blurt out some excuse to get away and dash down the wrong hallway to get to her class.

Luckily for you, Peter got switched into your psych class thanks to uneven numbers, and even luckier, he got to sit by you as well! As you hop into the classroom, you spot him sitting in the seat beside yours in the second row, having draped his jacket over your seat to save it for you. Your heart warms at the sight: even though everyone had fully settled into their unassigned-assigned seats, he still made sure you'd be sitting next to him. What a sap.

You don't voice this as you slide into your chair, merely beaming at him when he turns to face you and handing him his jacket. He accepts it with a mirrored smile before going back to scribbling something down in a notebook.

"You ready for next Thursday?"

He nods, but doesn't look up, "Of course! Why wouldn't I be? We're going on a field trip to a lab I've heard so much about thanks to my Aunt and Uncle, and I can't wait to see what it's like! Who knows? I might want to work there when I get older because of this field trip. Plus, y'know, I'll like finally be the same age as you or whatever..."

He glances up and winks at you, but it's an awkward wink that has both of his eyes blinking at slightly different times behind those giant glasses of his. You can't help but cackle at the sight. He looked like a little fish! The embarrassed blush that crosses his cheeks is too similar to Ned's from earlier, and you know what...? You have to agree with Betty.

It  _is_ pretty adorable to see them so happy.

( _But of course, you won't be admitting that to either of them._ )

 

* * *

 

Yesterday was October 10th, and you slept through the field trip.

 

You _slept through_ the field trip!

...Honestly, though? You’re not too hung-up about it. Of course, you’re kinda disappointed you missed seeing Peter and Ned nerd-out and hearing Betty’s quirky side comments, but you’d manage. You’re not even sure how you slept through your alarm or Dad leaving for work yesterday. He and Odin were usually just as noisy as a pair of Boeing 747 engines on the verge of exploding in the morning, most likely to make sure you were wide awake and getting ready for school. Oh, whatever. What was _one_ missed day, anyway?

As it would turn out, Dad had the day off and similarly overslept. He echoed your sentiment of missing just  _one_ day, and with a mischevious grin, challenged you to a brunch cook-off. And how could you say no to that? You had inherited his over-competitiveness, though both of you would deny it 'til the sun came up.

After... _cooking_ brunch and cleaning the kitchen of the tornado of a mess the two of you had left, you and Dad ended up taking Odin out to a nearby dog park to run around. The fence behind your house is old and needs major repairs, but because Dad was feeling totally lazy, he opted to do it some other day. You met a couple of other good boys and girls that took a shine to your own, and once you returned home nearly three hours later, you were glad the three of you had gone out. You probably would have just larked about and procrastinated on homework as usual if you hadn't, and the day definitely wouldn't have passed as quickly as it did.

Now, it's currently October _11th_ , and everything's weird not because you missed a day, but because it's five minutes past the first bell, and Peter has yet to show up to Professor Kelly's class. You knew that being the goody-two-shoes student he is, Peter had yet to purposefully miss a day of school. Dean Davis had taken pity on him with that whole Ned-Flash-Liz debacle a month ago and hadn't counted either of your half-day of attendance as a full absence. 

But this was different. Peter was actually missing school.  _For real_.

You shift a bit in your seat, unnerved. You hoped nothing happened during the field trip yesterday... The General Techtronics Labs were relatively harmless and civilian-friendly labs in comparison to others even around the state, but you knew from Ned that they handled nuclear substances more often than not. Of course, they couldn't let just  _anyone_ —let alone a bunch of fucko high-schoolers with attention spans shorter than your fingernails—near nuclear waste!

(Right?)

God, you _really_ hoped nothing happened during the field trip yesterday.

The entirety of Professor Kelly's class is spent with you fidgeting in your seat, counting down the moments until Chem with Professor Moore. Maybe Peter was just biting the bullet like you were yesterday and not showing up because of how late he would be. It would be totally unlike him, sure, but maybe the utter humiliation of letting his perfect attendance streak go so easily had gotten to him. Of course, you had no idea how  _that_ felt like. You roll your eyes to yourself, tapping your pencil along with the seconds on the clock. You're the first one out the door when the bell goes off.

Peter doesn't show up to Chem either, and Professor Moore announces his surprise at this with a disdainful tone, marking down the attendance as he does. You cringe. Similar to psych earlier, you can't help but not pay attention, too focused on the odd disappearance of your closest friend here at Midtown. The rest of the day goes by in a daze, and even when Flash taunts you in Humanities about the whereabouts of Peter, you apathetically brush him off. Thankfully, some god is smiling down on you, as Flash merely  _tsks_ and goes back to whatever he was doing before.

The final bell rings, and you're at your locker in seconds. Ned must feel the same anxiety you do in not seeing Peter all day because he comes up to you moments after.

"Have you seen Peter all day?" He questions, shuffling back and forth, "It's not like him to not come to school. He might look tiny and frail, but he's got the immune system of a horse!"

You shake your head, "Haven't seen him. It  _is_ super weird not seeing him at school. Maybe he's sick? Or... maybe the field trip yesterday overwhelmed him? I don't know...you wanna go call his house and figure it out?"

"I would, but I've got studying to do. My physics test next Monday isn't going to ace itself! Good luck, [Name]!"

With that, he races off. You chuckle, turning back to your locker and shutting it. What a concerned friend. Oh, well. 

Dad picks you up from school as somewhat of an apology for not waking you up yesterday (even though that was mostly your fault), and hands you his mobile flip phone so that you can call Peter's house. Dad made the two of you exchange numbers to your respective homes after picking you up from the nurse's office all that time ago, with his explanation for this being something along the lines of if you ever got into trouble again, someone would have to bail the two of your sorry-asses out. He just laughed as the two of you angrily blushed and scribbled down your home numbers.

You dial the number you have memorized ( _just in case_!) and someone picks up on the second ring. " _Parker household, Peter speaking—_ "

"—Peter! Where the hell were you today?" Dad pokes your head at your language, and you snicker. "Was the lab so great you just couldn't face being a high school student anymore?"

" _Wha—? No. I'm just...not feeling well, I guess._ "

"Poor thing. Is it a cold? You need me to bring you some soup or something?"

" _No! I'm fine! You don't have to bring anything!_ "

You share a glance with your father. That sounded a little suspicious. Dad nudges his head to his side, and you hold the phone in-between your ears.

Dad chuckles, "Peter, it's okay! I make a mean chicken noodle soup, and no-one in my family has had a cold in five years. I'll send [Name] over later tonight and you can try it! Oooh, maybe you two could even have a little sleepover! How cute would  _that_ be?"

" _Dad_ ," You warn, smiling nevertheless, "If he's sick, you don't want me around him for that long, do you?"

Without hesitation, Dad laughs, "If you get sick, I can take another day off from work by saying I took you to the Doctor. And you can obviously take another day off because hey, _you'll be sick_."

"That's so  _evil_... But I'll go!" You place the phone back to your ear, "Alright, Pete! It's settled! I'm coming over with Dad's soup! See you later!"

The call ends with the  _snap_ of the phone folding closed, and you can't help but feel the ultimate satisfaction in it.

 

(Meanwhile, a bewildered Peter holds the corded phone in his hand and slides down the wall dramatically, sprawling his limbs all across the floor of the kitchen. "... _Why me_?")

* * *

 

Looking up at the tiny green-hued house with its faded porch, two-shades-lighter shutters, and slightly overgrown garden out front reminds you of home. No, not the one ten minutes away that you share with your dad and Odin, but the lovingly lived-in ranch-style home your family thrived in. While old, it had its own character, and while patch-worked in some spots it was brand new in the places that mattered the most. You take a deep breath and square your shoulders resolutely before ringing the doorbell.

If their house reminded you of your old one, they had to be laid-back, right?

...right?

You don’t have any time to bail or dive into the bushes to hide, unfortunately, because in just two seconds an older man is opening the door wide and smiling jovially at you. “Why, hello there!”

You gulp to yourself (hopefully). This man looks like a younger, healthier version of Santa Claus, nix the beard. His cheeks are as rosy as they come, and his brown eyes hold the kind of wisdom only older people carry. He reminds you a lot of an older Peter, which is fitting considering…

“Are you related to a Peter Parker,” You question hesitantly, rocking back on the heels of your feet for a second before slightly losing your balance and nearly falling. You manage to right yourself, but the man’s laughter has got your face burning in embarrassment.

“His Uncle Ben, mind you,” He chirps, stepping out of the doorway, “I reckon you’re here to see my nephew then.”

You spot an older woman with predominantly grey hair glancing over her shoulder at you from the kitchen with a wide smile. There’s a twinkle of some kind of strange emotion in her eye, and you try ignoring the anxious chill that washes over you.

Well. If this turned out to be the wrong house and something horrible happened to you, at least you could use it to guilt-trip Peter into doing some of your psychology homework later…?

Yeah. Okay. You nod to Uncle Ben, quickly stepping inside and leaving your shoes by the mat in what you hope they perceive as a polite gesture. Ben ambles around you to the living room and takes a seat at an old brown recliner you’re surprised hasn’t been thrown out yet, considering the rips scattered around its surface and the dark stain of something on the bottom left leg. Your blood runs cold again—

“—Don’t mind the stain. Peter was trying to scare poor Ben while he was sleeping and wound up getting a kick to the face. It was the most blood I had ever seen come from a five-year-old’s nose,” The woman from before passes you by and hands Ben a tray with a plate and a glass of water on top of it. All of your senses are assaulted at once—not only does the lasagna she cooked look mouthwatering, it smells divine and you almost can taste it from here. The woman lets out a soft chuckle and you blink yourself out of your reverie.

“May Parker,” She turns and holds a hand out to you, and you shake it in a way you hope would make your dad proud. “Or Aunt May, as the nephew calls me. And who might you be?”

You tell her your name while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear timidly. She comments on it being a lovely name, and you actually take it as a compliment for once. You suppose the crinkle of her eyes helps out with that.

"Um, I brought soup," You awkwardly mutter, holding the container in your right hand up a little higher. You also turn a bit to let her see the bag slung behind your shoulder. "And, if it's okay with you, my Dad said I could spend the night to watch over Peter.  _If it's okay with you_!"

From his place on the couch, Ben laughs, "And make you sick so that he can get a day off, I'm guessing?"

Your cheeks heat up, and you figure that's what gives you away. Ben chortles and allows you to spend the night if you please since it's Friday and neither of you would have school tomorrow. May, who had disappeared into the kitchen with your soup for a moment, reappears with a plate in each hand. “Since you’re here to see Pete, would you mind taking this up to him? He hasn’t been out of his room all day, the poor thing.”

You take the plates with a furrowed brow, “...Peter really eats all of this?”

“I sure hope not,” May retorts, “We don’t need another Portly Parker in this household,” She raises her voice slightly, and tilts her head toward the living room with a smirk.

In his seat, Ben sits up from his slouch in a pinch, sputtering and running his hands over the puckered hills of his shirt all the while, “I’ve _been_ running, May!”

She snickers and you can’t help but laugh along before she turns back to you, “After being cooped upstairs all day, I figure that eating with some company might do him well. I mean, if you _are_ spending the night, might as well, right?”

You’re just about to reject the offer of free food and just take the soup Dad made (who  _are_ you!), but she sticks forks on each plate and gently guides you to the stairs with two hands placed on your shoulders. “You can’t fool me, kiddo, I saw the way you were ogling my lasagna! Peter’s room is the last one of the left.”

She leaves you on the second landing of the stairs, walking back downstairs to fetch her own plate and sit at the couch closest to Ben. You turn to look up the stairs going to the second floor, your shoulders drooping slightly.

 _O-kay, you can do this_ , you think to yourself, spotting two doors on the left and three on the right. You automatically know which one is Peter’s, thanks to the sign on his door displaying something. However, you want to delay the inevitable awkward meeting between the two of you as much as possible. He was supposedly sick, probably tucked in bed like a little Peter-Burrito. Ha, maybe that’s what the B in his name stood for.

You’re halfway through the hall when you stop and have an epiphany.

 _What if...what if he slept naked_ —?

“Jesus Christ,” You mutter to yourself. If one of your hands were free, you would have totally slapped yourself in the forehead. But no, you don’t particularly want a lasagna facial mask tonight, so you settle for whipping your head back and forth as if you were a dog. “Calm down, it’s just your friendly nerd from Chem. He’s just sleeping, so all you have to do is set his plate on his desk and go back down to his aunt and uncle. Rad.”

Convincing yourself doesn’t always do wonders, but you’re at his door seconds after your little pep-talk. The sign on his door is a handmade diagram of an engineer’s flowchart on an invention moving and if it was supposed to. One route ends in WD-40, another in duct tape, and you find yourself giggling at the joke and how geeky Peter had to be to have drawn and taped this on his door.

“Pete,” You call out, tapping the door with your feet, “It’s me! Didn't think I was coming, huh? Well, here I am! Aunt May loaded me up with dinner, so if you could open the door, that’d be cool!”

There's a shocked gasp from beyond the door that's cut out almost immediately, and you go into high-alert mode as soon as it happens. You call Peter's name once more, but there's no other noise from the other side. You blow a raspberry in annoyance, moving the plate from your right hand to your left arm with care. Your now free hand reaches out almost in slow motion to turn the knob on the door, and you kick it open further with your foot as you shuffle the plates back to each hand.

"...Peter?"

You step inside hesitantly, glancing around the room. Across from the door and yourself is a twin-sized bed that's made pretty neatly for someone like Peter. There's a large window between the foot of the bed and his closet that lets the light of the moon shine through the darkness, making everything seem a bit eerier than you'd like. Just to your right is a dresser with a few knick-knacks on top of it, and you nudge them aside so that you can set your plates down and forget about them. Again, you'd rather  _not_ have a meaty pasta face mask. (Though you do wonder if that could clear up the tiny patch of zits that popped up near your hairline a few days ago...) You swing your backpack off your form and plop it down on the floor next to the door.

"Oh,  _Peeeee-teeeer_ ," You singsong, tiptoeing around the room, "Are you your own monster under the bed? Or are you in the closet and you have something to tell me?"

You plop down beside the bed on your hands and one knee, leaning to peer underneath the bed. Oddly enough, there's a ball designed like the earth,  _several_ shoeboxes overflowing with various things, and a rabbit's foot (gross!), but no Peter. Rotating on the balls of your feet, you peer over to the closet, which is closed. Wow. You really weren't expecting this. You stand and pop a few joints on the way, rolling your eyes as you pad over to the closet.

You stuff your hands in the giant pocket of your hoodie. "Pete, come on, this isn't cute."

Silence.

"Peter Bethany Parker, if you don't come out this instant I will kick the door down, and you will regret it."

Your eyes narrow as you back up a step, then steel yourself. You'll give him five seconds. The countdown starts immediately in your mind, and as you count, you stretch your kicking leg out idly. Why was he being so stubborn? You two were friends now. Did he just suddenly call that off after realizing how weird you were in comparison to him? You shake your head.

Then, you swing your leg backward. "Peter! I'm kicking the door down right now!"

Before you can do anything, you hear a frightened squawk from above, almost like a little pigeon stuck in a tree. It's enough to make you pause before you can commit your violent act, of course, considering you thought Peter was in the closet in front of you, and not  _above_ you. Was it just the ceiling settling? You  _are_  in an old house, after all...

A bit of dust from up above lands on your nose then. Furrowing your eyebrows, you dust your skin off nonchalantly and glance up at the ceiling briefly.

Oh. That’s where Peter was hiding. You roll your eyes at him for messing around with you and scoff, turning away and kicking your shoes off.

 

... _Wait a minute_.

 

You snap your head up to face Peter, who stands opposite of you on the ceiling, his feet sticking to the surface above just as easily as yours were pressed into the carpet below. His face is red, his glasses are missing, and his hair is an absolute wreck. You open your mouth to shout at him in surprise, but he’s got a hand on you seconds before you do so. _Woah_. Was he that tall before?

And how did he know you were going to yell at him?

And why in the living _hell_ is his hand so _sticky_?

Your fingers fly up to his to pry his hand off of your face, but it doesn’t budge. You turn to face him standing sheepishly on the ceiling and manage a displeased grunt under his skin.

“Sorry, I don’t really have control over that,” He grins, using the other to scratch at the back of his neck. That one doesn’t stick to him, and you raise an unamused eyebrow in response.

 _Why the fuck would you grab my face, then,_  You're practically screaming internally, I _thought you were supposed to be smart, dumbass!_

Apparently whatever has given Peter the ability to stick to the ceiling gave him the ability to clearly interpret the glare your face has fully adopted. He raises his other hand in surrender and tries letting go of your face, but again, it doesn’t move. You really hope this is just him bullshitting you right now.

“Look, I don’t know what exactly is happening to me, so if you could quit judging me like that, that’d be awesome,” He sighs, tapping his foot on the ceiling. You don’t think you’ll be able to fully get over that. “I bet you’re wondering what happened to make me like this.”

Honestly, you couldn’t give a shit. You just wanted your face back! If you had anything going for you in this world, it was your scathing wit and penchant for one-liners, and one Peter B. Parker wasn’t going to take that away from you! Once more, you thread your fingers through his own and glare at him. He warns you that you shouldn’t do that, but you’ve already had enough of whatever this game was. You clench your fist and _pull_ —

A shout passes your lips once Peter's hand near _rips_ away from your mouth. Startled by the sudden action and your yell, Peter jumps, and the next thing you both know, you're on the ground in a heap, Peter crushing you from above. Oh great, in addition to presumably growing taller, he's gained a little bit of weight. (At least he's healthier than before...)

Without hesitation, Peter rolls off of you and launches into a sitting position, helping you up to your feet even though you don't need it. Worriedly, he circles you and checks the back of your head, muttering, "Sorry. Are you okay?"

"As okay as one can be after getting the skin around their mouth torn off," You cup your hand around the burning area, wincing at the irritation, "And I was growing my mustache out too..."

"What?"

"Nothing, just a joke," You wave your hand flippantly. "Why the _fuck_ were you on the ceiling?"

Shrugging, Peter comes back in front of you, passing a hand through his upright hair and combing it back to its 90s boyband style. He scoops up his glasses from the desk next to the dresser and puts them on, but cringes after his eyes adjust and sets them back where they were. "Testing something out."

You roll your eyes, not willing to put up with his cryptic bullshit, "What do you mean,  _testing something out_? You were on the ceiling and your hand was sticking to my mouth like superglue! Next thing I know, you'll rip my hoodie off just because you went to brush off some of Odin's dog hair or something!"

"Look, I don't know what exactly happened," His hands are in his hair again, roughly shaking through it. After almost tearing some of the strands from his scalp, he places his attention back on you and leans in close, whispering, "But I think I might have superpowers or something."

Your face drops in utter disbelief. "SUPER—"

Peter's hand shoots out to cover your yell, but having anticipated it, you swat it away with a glare. Your hands find your hips in an instant, and you're whispering back, " _Superpowers_? Have you gone absolutely mental? Superpowers and superheroes are the work of creepy old dudes trying to live out the childhood they dreamed of, not the childhood they got! The last time I checked, you were neither old nor a creep, Peter!"

"Well, thanks, I don't consider myself a creep either...Look, [Name], I don't think I actually have superpowers, but how I am supposed to know that?" Peter pauses, sticking his hands in the pockets of his now high-watered jeans, "Maybe...just maybe...we could figure it out together?"

There's, like, a tiny moment of silence in which your face goes blank and Peter gives you an awkward smile full of teeth before you bend over and stick your foot into one of your shoes. You manage to not say anything as you search for your right shoe, hopefully getting the point across that you were  _not_ dealing with this right now. To his credit, Peter picks up on this rather quickly, and just as fast as he does, he sticks himself between you and the door, blocking your backpack as well. You give him a scathing scowl when you note the pout and puppy-dog eyes he's adopted in order to stop you.

“Oh _noooooo,_ I’m not helping you play out some little stereotypical nerdy white-boy power fantasy,” You hiss, “I’ve got other more important things to do, like fail Professor Moore’s next Chem exam and eat my sadness away afterward.”

Peter’s shoulders fall...and you honestly have to admit that part of you does too (no, no you don’t! You definitely do not have to honestly admit this boy was affecting you like that already!!). In order to ignore it, you twirl around on your foot and cross your arms, shouting out proudly when your eyes spot your missing shoe. You immediately lunge for it, struggling to slip it on over your foot without untying the laces. You want out of here,  _right now_. Once you've got it at fitted over half of your foot, you glance over your shoulder at Peter with a smirk—

—And immediately feel like shit.

Peter, who has just grown an extra four inches _at least_ and towers over you now, has managed to curl himself into what has to be the world's saddest and smallest human ball on top of his bed. His arms are slung around his legs listlessly, and his chin is smushed rather uncomfortably in the divot between his kneecaps. He's got his eyes trained on the floor, the tips of those goddamned bangs of his curling dangerously close to his irises. His entire aura reads " _I'm uber sad and I don't want to talk about it, but if you bring it up I_ will _talk your ear off about my problems_ ", and while you really do have to study for that stupid Chem exam, you puff out a breath and plop down beside him.

"How did this happen, PB?"

He mumbles between his knees, "During the field trip, they took us to a lab where they were demonstrating nuclear waste safety and the handling of it. It was pretty interesting stuff. Did you know—"

"—No, I didn't," You raise a hand, "Spare me those details."

"Okay. Well, everything's normal, right? I'm just standing around next to Ned and Betty and the others when out of nowhere I feel this tickling on my hand. I look down, and it's a weird looking spider! It's blue with red spots, but it's  _glowing green_? And I'm just about to swat it off when it bites me."

You tilt your head and curl your lip. "And what happened next? You're not telling me a  _spider bite_ made you cling to the ceiling and stick to my face, are you?"

He nods slowly, but surely, "I am, [Name], and you gotta believe me, because I almost got run over by a car when I was walking home yesterday, and instead of ending up as roadkill, I  _leaped over it_." He turns to you suddenly, placing his hands on your shoulders and shaking you gently. "[Name], look at me! Do I look like one of those Yamakasi guys?"

"I don't even know who or what that is, so I'll just say  _yes_ —"

"—I don't! They're parkour guys, by the way. You should check 'em out. Anyway! I'm not athletic at all! How did I jump over a car? And how did I somehow sense the car coming and how did I manage to avoid it? It has to be linked to the spider bite!"

You place your hands on top of his in order to get him to stop shaking you, widening your eyes as you stare him down. "Peter, do you realize how  _fucking_ crazy you sound right now, scratch that, _have been_ sounding? Superpowers? A spider in a nuclear waste lab—"

"—I'm thinking it's a radioactive spider—"

"— _don't_ interrupt me right now! Whatever, a  _radioactive_ spider in a lab bit you, and now you suddenly have increased reflexes? The ability to stick to things? Increased athletic ability? Dude, that's like out of a cartoon or something! I may have seen it with my own two eyes, but who knows? You might have been toking up in here before I came up! I could be  _high_ right now because of you! That would explain that rank-ass smell in here, though..."

Peter looks vaguely offended, but brushes it off, "You think my Aunt and Uncle wouldn't smell it from downstairs if I were smoking in here? Do I even look like I know where to get weed?  _Don't_ answer that, I see your mouth opening to say something smart, you dick. Look, just...," He rubs the back of his neck before flopping backward on to his bed, "Can you just help me out, here?"

"Help you out how? Do  _I_ look like  _I_ have superpowers?" Despite the wording and your emphasis, you sound more timid and nervous than sarcastic, and you're glad. Peter looks like he's just been punched in the appendix and is about to shit it out. ( _That was a weird simile, even for you_.) "What would you need me to do?"

"Just...help me figure out what exactly I can do now. I know my reflexes are better, and I got taller, and I can stick to things, but that's about it. What if I've got super strength? Flight? Better hearing? I don't know. But I don't want to go out this late by myself and have something happen, you know?"

You flop back onto the bed yourself, heaving a sigh that has you sinking deep into the comforter. You could say no, obviously, get up and grab your plate and take it to go. You could say no and force him to sleep, because if he  _was_ sick like everyone was claiming then this could just be sleepy sick ramblings. You could say no and fall asleep right here, honestly.

 

But you don't  _want_ to do that. You don't want to do  _any_ of that.

 

And you're pretty sure Peter knows this already. Damn it.

 

The next sigh you give has you idly thinking you might be the reason why the hole in the ozone layer is getting bigger. Peter rolls his head to gaze you at you with a worried expression, but you sit up, place your hands behind your body and lean back so that you can look down on him. You knit your eyebrows together sternly (you hope) and stick your chin out.

You must look like a grouch, and you certainly feel like one too. Peter, however, is radiating hope as he tries (and fails) to keep calm despite his hands tapping rapidly on his thighs.

"You get one!  _ONE_! One superhero training session," You shove your finger just inches away from his nose, "And after we get back, you'll sneak downstairs and get me another helping of your aunt's heavenly lasagna and help me study for that goddamn Chemistry test."

Peter grins a grin that nearly splits his face in two, and despite your faux-anger at him, you can't help but match it. He straightens himself in a snap, bringing his hand up to his eyebrow in a salute to you. "Aye aye, Captain!"

"Alrighty then,  _matey_ ," You smirk, heading over to the window and yanking it open, "After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! *sips on caffeinated drink rather awkwardly*  
> ...it's been a minute, huh??  
> how're the kids? still being sarcastic, dorky assholes like these two?
> 
> _nice._
> 
> i know i said spidey in the next chapter last chapter, but holy moly this _behemoth_ of a chapter turned out to be like 10,000 words and i couldn't drop alllll that at once considering my previous chapters are all in the 2,000-4,000 range haha! next chapter _will_ have training montage spidey and it _will_ come out on 2/26 because that's the day itsv comes out on digital and i cry!!! see you then!!!


	6. a night at the opera (or, the one with a superhero training montage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have no lyrics.....  
> because they're _in_ the chapter this time ohohoho  
> buuuuuuuuuuuuuut....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Songs of the chapter: "Montage"—Paul Dano & Daniel Radcliffe // "Bohemian Rhapsody"—Queen // "Under Pressure"—Queen // "Don't Stop Me Now"—Queen // "We Will Rock You"—Queen // "Another One Bites The Dust"—Queen // "Radio GaGa"—Queen

Apparently, Peter's already got the whole " _increased reflexes_ " bit down pat, considering he's dodging every obstacle in his way with ease. You, on the other hand, aren't far from screaming your head off whenever he does it, as you're currently perched on the tiny-ass handlebars and the even smaller bar going through the front wheel of his bike. You could become roadkill at  _any_ moment, and Peter doesn't seem to be fully cognizant of this fact. (Or maybe he is and he just doesn't care, you're not entirely sure.)

"Slow down!" You shout, yelping when the bike runs over a large rock and nearly sends the two of you flying, "I'm gonna die!"

Because of the way you have chosen to ride, Peter's got his chin dug into your shoulder in order to see past you, so you can feel him talk as he does. "I can't! It hurts when I go too slow! I grew like four inches overnight, remember?”

"Why didn't I steer then? _Oh_ , _I’m_ _gonna_ _dieeeeee_!”

"You're not gonna die! Shut up!"

 _Dear Heavenly Father, what have I done to deserve this?_ Is your internal monologue, screaming so loud you swear you might have actually said it. Peter's over your behavior, however, so if you did, you really have no idea. You clench your fists tighter on the handlebars as Peter swerves around a street haphazardly. You are  _so_ driving the way back to his house.

A thought hits you suddenly, "Where are you taking us, anyway?"

"Back to Forest Park! It's about to close, but I think there's an open way in over by the baseball field."

"And _how_ do you know this information?"

He snorts, "Seymour O'Reilly isn't exactly a subtle talker, y'know?"

"...Touché."

Peter takes a right on Myrtle Avenue a few seconds later, and you're too hung up on what has gone down in the past thirty-or-so minutes you have been in his presence. Superpowers... While you weren't one to entertain such thoughts (you're  _sixteen_ and  _far_ from being a _child_ , of course), you had to admit that you were just a teensy-bit curious on the whole matter. What exactly went down yesterday at the Labs while you were lounging about at home? What caused a spider to become radioactive? What caused a radioactive spider to bite  _Peter_ of all people? How did he gain powers from a radioactive spider bite? Oh, your head is starting to hurt... If only you hadn't overslept yesterday. You wonder what would have happened if you arrived at school for the field trip on time.

"We're here."

You glance to your right, spotting the baseball fields just off the street. There are fences surrounding it and the park on all sides, but they're just the perfect height for you and Peter to climb over. Despite the thick hoodie settled comfortably on your upper body, you shiver.

"This is like something out of a movie," You whisper, hopping off of the bike and watching as Peter pushed it into a bush to hide it. Once he returns to your side, he hums something animatedly, shaking his head to the beat. With a grin, you ask, "...Wha—at are you humming, you weirdo?"

His eyes nearly bug out of his head, "The theme song to  _Mission: Impossible_!"

You frown.

"... _Mission: Impossible_? Tom Cruise? Came out this past May?"

A shrug.

Peter rolls his eyes and slumps his shoulders in disbelief, "I know this old guy who works at the Blockbuster in Queens Village. When it comes out, we're totally renting it."

"And if I say no?" (You won't, but—)

He takes a second to think about it. With a shrug, he grins a crooked grin, "—You won't!"

You gape as he crosses the street with a skip in his step. He makes it a good chunk of the way before turning back to you and laughing as you shake your head and dash over to him. With a grunt, you shove your elbow into his rib cage (which is now much easier thanks to his height!) before crossing your arms indignantly. He  _was_ right, of course, you probably wouldn't say no, but he didn't need to be figuring that out already! You've only known each other, what, a month and a half?

The two of you come to a stop once you near the wired fence of the park, tilting your heads up to get a scope of its height. You were correct in your assumption earlier that both of you could easily scale them and just jump down, thank god. You weren't about to deal with having Peter lift you or you lifting him in order to get where you wanted to be, _especially_ if you were trespassing. Wasting no time, you place your right foot behind you and push off on it, jumping up onto the fence. Peter makes a noise of surprise before quickly following your lead. It doesn't take long for either of you to climb over, and before you know it, you're crouching on the other side.

"What are you _doing_?"

"So sorry, not everyone can land so gracefully like you, daddy-long-legs. Let me have my rough landing."

You can  _feel_ the redness that blooms at the tips of his ears and quickly spreads down his neck. Peter sputters, " _D-Daddy? Long l-legs_?"

Slightly annoyed, you stand erect and yank the hood of the jacket he put on over his head. "You got bit by a radioactive.  _Spider_. Get your mind out of the gutter."

You turn away quickly and start on getting over to the baseball field, Peter mumbling behind you about how he wasn't trying to be a little pervert the entire time. You pay him no mind as you walk. The field isn't too far from the edge of the park, and the fences there that enclose it from the rest of Forest Park aren't locked, so you find the entrance gate and open it with ease. Peter goes off to the dugout and drops his jacket there just to be safe, and you go to the shed that's behind the bleachers. It isn't too dark thanks to the moon and the lights from the city all around you, but you'd appreciate some extra light, however negligible it might be.

The shed is unlocked as well, which surprises you. For a large park such as Forest Park, you'd expect there to be more security and for things to be locked up just a  _biiit_ tighter. But since you're quite enthusiastically engaging in criminal activity, the lack of security is just fine for now! You flick the light switch on the wall of the shed, taking a second for your eyes to adjust to the light before diving in. There's a good amount of baseball gear cluttering the space, from bats and gloves to a whole bucket full of baseballs and softballs all mixed together. You step over the bucket to go further into the shed. On the shelves in the back are an assortment of other outdoor play paraphernalia, like tennis rackets, rings for ring toss, and a tee for tee-ball, among others. There aren't any flashlights or things of that matter though, and you're about to leave disappointed when your eye spots something  _aweso_ —

"—Find anything?"

With a scream, you grab the nearest object to you, whip around on your heel and  _pelt_ whoever it was behind you with it, scooping up a bat immediately after. Peter shouts in surprise as he catches a hula-hoop like it's nothing, staring at you incredulously. Even though he really hadn't physically hurt you, you swear your soul left your body at the scare, and in return, you gently shove the butt of the baseball bat in your hands into his stomach.

Dropping it unceremoniously, you turn back to the object you found. "Goddamn, Pete, you really are like a spider, sneaking up on me like that...! Next thing I know, you'll be crawling the walls."

"I already have," He deadpans, stepping up beside you while rubbing the offended spot on his stomach. "...Is that what I think it is?"

Forgetting the scare, you beam and nod, bending over to dig out the absolutely  _awesome_ thing this shed had hiding. "Yes, it is, Mr. Parker!" You pop it out from underneath a case full of sidewalk chalk and hold it over your head just as proudly as Mufasa did Simba. "It's a boombox!"

Peter holds his fists over his head and whoops in excitement. Your ego feels stroked in the best possible way despite this A) not being  _your_ boombox, and B) you just found the thing laying around and he could've easily done the same if he had come here first, but you ignore both of those facts. You want your _moment._

Your fellow criminal companion points out a wall outlet just under the light switch, and you plug it in and drag it outside on the grass just as much as the cord will allow. The red and black music player is shiny and new, and you feel quite giddy. Whoever bought this for the park must have been absolutely _loaded_ to just keep it in an unlocked shed and practically forget about it! You wonder what type of music they played...? (Probably something pretentious, like that Smashing Pumpkins band or whatever.)

"Wanna see what they listen to around here?" Peter teases, pressing his finger on the top of the CD part of the boombox. The top pops open with a  _click_ , and inside lays a blank CD. You share a look with Peter, who smirks mischievously. "Only one way to find out!"

He jabs the top closed with that same finger and presses the play button beneath the CD compartment immediately after, reaching for the knob to turn the sound up. You swat his hand away and turn it all the way down before turning it up a quarter of the way. "We'll play music, but we can't play it too loud, Pete. Never know who might be out here, right?"

"Righ—"

_—Is this the real life?_

"...Are you serious?"

 _Is this just fantasy_?

"No way..."

_Caught in a landslide,_

" _No escape from reality_ ," Peter croons, clenching his fist in triumph and dramatically whipping his head to the side, "Oh, man, [Name],  _Queen_? We  _have_ to play this louder!"

He scrambles to turn the knob higher, and you let him do so with a giggle. It  _is_ Bohemian-fuckin'-Rhapsody, and you can't deny this feat of musical genius from playing as loud as it deserves to even if you were illegally doing it. 

But, while you're allowing this, you didn't come here to listen to Queen on an expensive-ass boombox either! So you spring to your feet and clutch the collar of Peter's shirt to drag him to a standing position, all while he mimes the lyrics with a grandeur that would make Freddie Mercury himself proud. Tapping him in the center of his forehead to regain his attention, you place your hands on your hips. "Alright, Galileo, what do you want to get started on in this...this  _superhero training session_?"

Peter purses his lips in thought, swaying from side to side to the ballad in the background unconsciously. He spends several seconds like this before looking back at you and lifting a hand indifferently. "Don't know! I figured you might have more ideas, honestly..."

You frown, tilting your head in exasperation. "Wasn't I saying earlier that I didn't want to help you play out a white-boy power fantasy? What makes you think—"

"—I know, I know!" He lifts both of his hands sheepishly, a little crooked smile tugging the corner of his mouth, "But like _I_ said before, I'm not the type to become a superhero, remember? I have no idea what I should start with! What kind of powers does a radioactive spider give besides the abilities to crawl on walls and stick to things?"

"Hm... Well. What do spiders normally have? Can't they lift stuff like ants can?"

Peter scratches the back of his head, shutting his eyes as if that will help him recall this faster. "I think? I'm pretty sure their strength is proportional to their body weight or something like that."

You nod slowly, "Okay...that's a start. Let's see if you've got super strength then."

Stepping farther away from the shack, you glance around the field. There's not much to work with other than the bleachers, the dugout, and the shack, but you suppose you'll just have to make it work for now. You're just about to direct him to try lifting a section of the bleachers when you feel arms wrap around your waist and lift you  _quite_ high.

 

"...Pete."

"...Yeah?"

"Put me down."

"I'm just checking! You're like a feather."

"As compared to what I was before?"

Your feet touch the ground once more and you instantly turn on him, giving him  **The Stare™**. He backs up a bit with a shaky grin.

"You know I couldn't lift you before even if I tried! I couldn't even lift Ned's backpack, and that thing weighs like, twenty pounds."

Still glowering at him, you manage an unamused scoff. "Nice save."

(You know he means well, but it's still fun to mess with him, of course.)

"Anyway," You turn back to the bleachers, "Try lifting a section of those bleachers. We don't have much to use here, but it's something, I guess."

He's not convinced that you're fully over what just happened, but nevertheless tromps over to the bleachers. They're made of what looks to be concrete and aluminum, so they must be heavy, right? Like regarding most things that have gone on tonight (and y'know, tonight in  _general_ ) you're not sure. You're sure that Peter feels similar to you, mostly because he sizes the outdoor seating up for a moment before attempting to lift it. You're about to call it off when he abruptly bends at the knee, sticks his hand under the closest seat, and tugs upwards.

 

Nothing happens.

"Is it moving?" Peter grunts, his limbs shaking as he pulls harder. "Is anything happening?"

You can't help but chuckle to yourself; he looks like he's taking a shit, honestly, and you're glad he can't see it. "Nope! Hey, maybe this won't—"

_—creeeee-eeeeak_

Peter jolts, "Did you hear that?"

"I did... _what_...Pete, maybe you should let go?"

"No way! Let me try it again!"

Before you can do anything to stop him, Peter tugs once more, and in slow motion, you see part of the bleacher detach from the ground below. Oh god, you weren't aware they were built into the ground, and you're one hundred percent sure Peter wasn't either! You're frozen in place as two more of the bars connecting to the ground spring up, and Peter laughs in success. Oh man...

"You have super strength..." You whisper in awe, your mind racing back and forth between this and the fact that you can now add property damage to your growing list of criminal offenses. "Okay...Okay. What next?"

Peter raises a hand, "Ah, ah, ah! We don't really know if I have super strength, honestly. But we can always  _say_ I do, right?" You nod and he crosses his arms victoriously in response. "Okay. So, I can stick to stuff, I've got enhanced reflexes, and I've got incredible strength."

You roll your eyes, "Okay, whatever, you _might_ have super strength. What do you want to try next? Let's get this superhero training session going!"

 

* * *

 

_Pressure! Pushing down on me!  
 Pressing down on you!_

 

"So spiders make webs, right?" Peter questions, gesturing to the wall dividing the baseball diamond from the bleachers, "Well, let's see if I can make a web and climb on it!"

"Okay...so," You stick your hands in your pockets, raising your brows in total amusement, "...make a web, Pete."

It's quiet between the two of you for a few seconds, and you catch Freddie Mercury and David Bowie crooning together in the background. Wow. Whoever made this CD must really love Queen's greatest hits or something. When you look back at Peter's face, he's completely at a loss of what to do. He tries stretching his hands out towards the bleachers, but nothing happens. He squints his eyes as if webs will shoot from there, but nothing happens. He kicks his foot up and points it to the bleachers, but again,  _nothing happens_. You're about to stop him from continuing his efforts when out of nowhere, he darts off to the bleachers. You hear a shout of " _WEB! GO!"_ before a large  _thud_ takes its place. When you cast your gaze to the bleachers, you spot Peter lying on the ground, his limbs spread out unnaturally. A peal of laughter escapes your mouth as he rubs his tomato-red forehead in regret.

As you walk to him to stand over him, you snicker, "That was just embarrassing. For the _both_ of us."

" _Well_! You never know! Maybe all of my powers haven't manifested yet! Maybe they manifest when I'm stressed or absolutely need them, and I wanted to test that! I could be going through, like,  _spider puberty_ , [Name]!"

You roll your eyes and smirk, "There's no such thing as spider puberty, but you go ahead and keep believing that. Hey, it's okay, bud! Maybe webs just weren't for you. I don't see exactly where you would have produced them from, and frankly, I don't want to know either, so this might be for the best!"

Peter crosses his arms and pouts like a little kid pouting after being told _no_ , "Whatever,  _okay_! Let's just do something else!"

The chuckle you give only makes him push his lip out further.

 

* * *

 

 _I'm gonna go, go, go,_  
_There's no stopping me!_  
_I'm burning through the sky, yeah!_

 

Tipping your head back, you squint at the top of the fence. Peter's climbed up and down it at least five times, each slightly quicker than the last. You would know, of course, because he's had you time  _every. Single_. Attempt. With a sigh, you tell him that this last run was ten and a half seconds.

"That's faster, right," He's panting, bent over at the waist, "Than the last one?"

You shake your head, "By like a second. You're quick, we've figured it out."

"One more! Just one more!" Before you can even stop him, he's already halfway up the fence.

Frowning, you mutter, "You said that the last time..."

 

(It takes you twenty minutes, but eventually, you're able to drag Peter away from the fence, albeit not without hearing him whine as you pull the collar of his shirt tight around his neck in payback.)

 

* * *

 

 _You got blood on your face, you big disgrace,_  
_Waving your banner all over the place._

Peter's still upset about the web debacle and the wall situation, but you two really don't have time for it. You're pretty sure that you've been out here for an hour and a half, which means it has to be at least 10:30. You skip back over to the shed in a flash and grab the bucket of baseballs and the bat you used to hit Peter in the stomach with, dragging it all out to the home plate. Peter follows you once you step out of the shed with a confused noise.

"Back up a bit?"

Furrowing his brow, Peter takes a couple of steps back.

"Further."

He strides backward to a spot between you and the Pitcher's Mound.

"A little further!"

He steps onto the Pitcher's Mound.

"Perfect!" 

With the bat in hand, you can't help but grin impishly at him. You're not athletically inclined yourself, but you know how to aim, and your swing is pretty alright... As fast as you can, you toss the ball in front of you and swing your bat.

"—Wha— _Hey_!"

The ball whips toward Peter, and just before it can connect with his forehead, he ducks. You're already hitting another as he ducks, a ball that bounces off the ground and would have most likely hit him in one of his shins had he not dashed to his right in the nick of time.

"[Name]! Wha—!"

A softball sails through the air at the height of his stomach, and he bends backward to avoid it before popping up and giving you a glare.

"[NAME]! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

"Agility training? Reflex training? Whatever the fuck this is," You quip, before grabbing three softballs and trying to hit them all at once. Two successfully soar to his position, and out of nowhere, Peter performs a handless (aerial?) cartwheel (flip?) to dodge them both. You shout in shock when he lands perfectly back on his feet, the look of pure unadulterated surprise on his face saying it all.

"YOU CAN FLIP NOW? DO A BACKFLIP!"

It's ugly since it's a conscious effort, but it works! It  _works_! (Peter looks slightly ill from the sudden jarring movement, but man, does he look  _proud_ of himself.) In a show of victory, you hoot as you toss another ball and hit it with your bat, meaning for it to be a home run—!

"— _Ow!"_

* * *

 

 _Another one bites the dust, hey!_  
_There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man,_  
_And bring him to the ground._

 

"It isn't  _that_ bad, I promise!"

"This is the second black eye I've gotten while being around you," Peter grunts, more to himself than to you but you hear it all the same. "You're a curse. Maybe you're the reason why I don't have web powers."

Exasperated, you tilt your head to the sky and slump your shoulders, "Jesus, such a drama queen..."

Beside you, Peter clutches the ball that socked him in the left eye and barks, "This training montage  _sucks_!" He throws it down on the ground, and it immediately bounces back and hits him in the family jewels. He crumples to the ground with a pained howl, and just like that, you're standing over his pathetic form once more.

Tsking, you squat down and ruffle his hair, "That's what you get, buddy. You never insult a training montage set to Queen, of all things."

The only thing he can manage to do is flip you off.

 

* * *

 

_You had your time, you had the power,  
 You've yet to have your finest hour!_

 

While the two of you had experience with his newly improved reflexes in his biking and maybe the baseball dodging, you agree to test them out once more up close as your last attempt here. The baseball diamond wasn't doing you any favors, and while waiting for Pete to get over the pain from his various body parts, ( _you're pretty sure he's bruised in more than a few places..._ ) you've just noticed how the chilly October air isn't doing either of you favors despite your hoodie and his long-sleeved shirt. You aren't quite sure how you'll do this, especially considering you don't want to accidentally hurt him again, but he seems game for anything.

"Come on," He coaxes you, raising his hands to chest height. 

You grin audaciously as you bend your knees a bit and raise your hands. You hope you look like Chun-Li as you fake a few punches toward him. Despite them being fake, he manages to swat each hit away, and while you're somewhat impressed, you can't help but throw more.

"You're pretty good at this," You praise, miming a kick that he instantly sweeps away with his own leg. You wobble a bit but quickly regain your balance.

He smirks, "Or are you just bad at fighting?"

"Okay, asshole, I don't think a spider gave you insult powers, too."

"Hey, you never know."

You actually manage to hit him in the shoulder after throwing a fake kick. "Spiders don't talk, genius."

One moment you're completely upright, facing him, and the next, you're eating dirt. In your slight distraction, Peter had managed to hook his foot around the one that you had thrown out to catch him off his guard, and once he saw his opening, he tripped you. You narrow your eyes at him from the dirt, feeling pretty pissy, but you can't complain. He  _had_ been in your position twice tonight _—_ though one of those instances had entirely been his own damn fault _._ With a loud guffaw, Peter reaches to help you up and picks you up off the ground like you weigh nothing once again.

You raise your hand to high-five him but switch half-way through to karate-chop your hand close to his face, but you can't, because he's suddenly got his hand around yours.

"Honestly, this whole better reflexes thing is pretty cool _—_ Pete?"

That other hand of his is clutching at his head, the roots of his hair being tugged as a result. The expression on his face is completely pained, eyes shut tightly and teeth grinding against the others so loudly you cringe. He stumbles, and you place your hands on his shoulder and his stomach without hesitation to keep him upright. ”Peter, are you alright?”

”Nope,” He manages, breathing slowly, “There was this...feeling? At the back of my head...It warned me about what you were about to do, you dick.”

Despite the circumstance, you manage a giggle, “Sorry. I won’t do it again. But hey, maybe you have some separate power from your reflexes? Kinda like precognition or something?”

He starts sliding down, down, down, until the two of you are sitting on the grass in front of home base. Peter takes it one step further and lies on his back, pressing his hand over his eyes to block out any light. Quietly, he jokes, “I’m a nerd, sure, but I am definitely not calling that precognition.”

”Well, we’ll have to come up with a name for it sometime. And you know, your superhero side in general; something spider-themed, of course. What are your thoughts on Spider Wonder? Kinda like Boy Wonder, but y'know...tailored to your powers?"

"No way. It doesn't have any flow," He separates his fingers to peer at you through them, "What about Webhead? That sounds pretty cool, don't you think?"

You crinkle your nose, slinging your arms around your knees, "Ugh. Maybe Kid Arachnid?"

The two of you ponder over it for a second before shaking your heads no. "I feel like _—"_

 _" _—__ Do you think _—"_

In unison, you say, " _—It doesn't fit_."

"It's not you," You chirp, "Maybe some other kid with spider powers, but definitely not you."

Peter hums noncommittally from the grass, brown eyes searching the sky above after he moves his hands. You turn as well, the rare clear night sky going perfectly well with a jazzy song from Queen you don't really recognize. You take the silence to think over everything that's happened tonight. Despite it not going like what you expected  _at all_ , what with you believing him to be sick hours ago and subsequently finding out about this... _new_  side of him, you're honestly a little glad you accompanied Peter on this strange night out. Sure, these superpowers might bring a shit ton of adversity and problems, but you're secretly happy that you were here for him.

"Hey, [Name]...?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming with me tonight. If you hadn't have shown up, I probably never would have told you about this," He turns his head to face you instead of the sky and manages a tired smile. "And I probably wouldn't have had a kickass training montage set to Queen, too, so...Thanks."

...You couldn't imagine being in his shoes—waking up one morning after thinking you got bit by a normal spider to being nearly half a foot taller with a host of abilities that most people could only dream of having. Holding a secret like that in...you wondered how that would turn out for someone like Peter, someone who had a number of friends he could count on one hand only. You weren't even sure if he and Ned were particularly close, honestly.

(You realize you're very glad you're here for him. The only thing that makes you pause in saying this is the thought of him doing the same for you. Would he?)

(You couldn't be too sure, at least, not this soon into your burgeoning friendship.)

Instead of asking him about any of what you just thought about, you smile back and raise your fist for him to tap it with his own, which he does.

"No problem,  _Spidey-boy_."

 

 

"...That doesn't sound right," Peter scratches at his ear idly.

You nod, crossing your arms. "This is way hard. There's gotta be a simple and catchy name out there."

"We'll figure it out later; we're probably just thinking too outside the box right now."

" _Right, right_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> i love training montages. i love queen. thus, this chapter was born  
> IN OTHER NEWS, HAPPY SPIDER-VERSE RELEASE Y'ALL (at least digitally lmfao)
> 
> in the next episode: did aunt may and uncle ben notice you two sneak out? is peter having a crisis? are you just too chill for your own good? will i return to naming the chapters after hippo campus songs? all this, and more: next time!


	7. simple season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Too young looking for trouble_   
>  _New god, lost in the struggle_   
>  _One more night in the backyard_   
>  _This simple season_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Song of the chapter: "Simple Season"—Hippo Campus

Peter doesn't _quite_ know where to go from here.

(And, if he's being a hundred percent honest with himself, he's scared of that fact. Almost utterly terrified.)

It really was like something out of a movie. The day before his sixteenth birthday, he's a normal nerdy kid at a semi-normal school in the very un-normal New York City. The day _of_ his sixteenth birthday, he's a normal nerdy kid on a normal field trip to a normal-appearing scientific lab downtown. He saw chemists mix together various liquids to create reactions, physicists working on technology that no normal sixteen-year-old could easily comprehend, and more. Near the end of the day, he was bitten by a normal-looking spider. The day was  _normal,_ besides the fact that when he was walking home he was almost hit by a car and he leaped over it just in time, but he figured living in Queens had given him some good timing in that regard, and he also digresses! The day was normal! Normal, normal,  _normal_!

What happened the following day—today—however, was decidedly _not_.

Today, Peter woke up and all of his clothes were a smidgen too tight, too short, or some deadly embarrassing combination of the two. Today, Peter woke up and somehow, despite feeling completely fine before bed last night, had a fever. Today, Peter woke up and when he set his hand down on his alarm clock to turn it off in annoyance,  _it stuck to his hand_. He shook his hand more than a few times to get it off, of course, but the clock remained glued to his skin as if there was an invisible adhesive between the two. His other hand shot out to try to yank the cord in order to something, but the cord decided to get stuck to that palm as well.

(At least the clock wasn't blaring?)

Yeah. _Okay_.

Peter won't admit to you how long it took him to get the clock off of his hands (twenty minutes, and he  _still_ doesn't know how he managed to do it), nor will he admit how weary he was about changing into his normal outfit of a shirt and jeans. Would they stick to his hands too? Would they stick to his body? If he got stuck in a particular outfit for the rest of his life, what would he least dread wearing? Probably anything other than the tacky Coney Island shirt Uncle Ben had gotten him a few summers ago. Hawaiian print only fit people from Hawaii and smug Uncles, of course. But, he digressed; this deliberating and procrastinating weren't getting him any closer to getting ready for school, only getting him closer to being  _late_. 

Not wanting to risk any other accidents (maybe it was just a sleep-deprived dream that the clock just randomly stuck to his skin?), Peter darted into his bathroom and shut the door with his shoulder instead of his hands. It was immediately locked, and the lights were flipped on just a second later. Peter glimpsed his reflection in the mirror...

And honestly wasn't surprised at all, which was the most surprising thing, if he thought about it.

Thanks to his fever, his nose and cheeks were a rosy color, and his eyes were a bit sunken and bloodshot, too. His hair stuck up at odd angles, definitely a far cry from his usual flopped over bangs. He felt taller, and he supposed he must have grown  _several_ inches overnight because he doesn't remember having to be mindful of crashing his uh,  _family jewels_ up against the edge of the counter just seven hours ago. Puberty? Puberty. He would blame that on puberty, not some weird spider bite. Because that _definitely_ didn't have any connection. Momentarily forgetting about his supposed stickiness, Peter went about his usual bathroom routine; brushing his teeth, washing his face, trying to get his bangs the right way. The more he accomplished, the more he wrote off the start of his morning as a weird, utterly too real fever-dream.

As Peter walked out of the bathroom and into the hall, Uncle Ben walked out of his and Aunt May's room, fully dressed for work. Uncle Ben had shot him a chipper smile, and it took all of Peter to smile like the world wasn't currently on his mind.

"G'mornin', Pete! Ready for another day at that prestigious high school of yours?"

Peter shrugged, minutely aware of the sweat that had broken out at his hairline, "It's not all  _that_ prestigious...I mean, Flash Thompson _does_ go there."

Ben rolled his eyes playfully, "You and Flash were friends once, you know! Ah, you remember those days?"

Ah, yes. Little League. Flash had just turned eleven, and Peter would be the same age later in the summer. Flash was the team's star shortstop, and Peter was  _just_ lucky enough to be given left field instead of right, which was where all the...least valuable players ended up. As such, they had to build  _some_ sort of relationship. It wasn't so bad back then; it wasn't like they were actual friends, but Flash had been a hell of a lot nicer back when he was just as short as the rest of his peers. Honestly, Peter figures if he hadn't gotten pulled out of little league early, things might be different now. But that was a story for another day (and another writer) at that.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, Peter just barely caught on to the way that Ben pat at his shoulder, flinching a bit  _too_ late and a bit  _too_ obvious for his liking. Ben raised an eyebrow as he pulled his hand away, mentally deciding not to press the issue. The older male shrugged, gave Peter a playfully concerned look, and turned to head downstairs.

"Thank god he didn't stick to me," Peter mumbled, stumbling to his room and slumping against the door after closing it. Sweat had broken out at the edge of his hairline, and everything was getting a bit  _too_ hot.

Peter swipes his glasses off of his bedside table, plopping them onto his nose.

" _Ow_...okay, what the _hell_ ," He hissed, blinking more than a few times to adjust his eyesight to the lenses. Everything was blurrier now, despite the fact that he had just gotten these a few months before school started. Peter set his glasses back down onto the table, blinking again. Was his eyesight  _better_ without the glasses on? Everything was clear. Trying his glasses a couple more times, Peter rubs at his eyes and waits for the dark spots in his vision to fade before grinning stupidly. "Well, ain't that a Christmas miracle."

This morning was officially the weirdest morning ever.

There was a knocking at his door. "Peter, sweetie," Aunt May calls out, "Your uncle says you aren't feeling well? Let me take your temperature!"

Blanching, Peter dove under the covers, thanking the Lord Jesus for this opportunity. He let Aunt May in. 

"Does it feel like a cold, hon? Do you think something was contaminated there? Did they have you test something just because you're a 'naive teenager in high school'?" Oh, how he loved and hated May's doting. On one hand, it was pretty funny when she did so, thanks to the Parker family penchant for wit making it seem like she was a bit exasperated caring for the boys of the home all the time. On the other, he wished she'd stop doing it so often and so intensely. He was sixteen ( _now_ , of course), and _far_ from a child, finally. He didn't need her to dote on him so much. (He appreciates it, though.)

Peter rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, "Nah, Aunt May...it's probably just the cold like you said."

She looked mildly unconvinced but nodded her head slowly. "Alright...I'll bring up some water and a grilled cheese sandwich? How does that sound?"

"Awesome," He smiled.

The grilled cheese, a bowl of tomato soup, a glass of water, several cold pills, a warm towel, a  _cold_ towel, the small box television from the guest room, and the combo DVD-VCR player were set in his room just ten minutes later by both his Aunt and Uncle. After making sure Peter would be okay with all of this, they both left to their respective jobs...but not without impishly tucking him in and giving him giant sloppy kisses on either cheek.

"Feel better, Peter!" Aunt May called out.

Uncle Ben nodded and pointed a finger, "Make smart choices! Don't stay up watching that TV. Get some rest, okay?"

Grinning, the "sick" kid nodded his head from underneath the comforter, sticking a thumb in compliance. And after taking two of the pills and drinking half of the water, he rested. Honestly, he didn't think he would get any, considering the fact that missing school for the second time in a single month-period was giving him some terrible anxiety (or was it just stress-farts? He didn't really know). Nevertheless, he managed to get five great hours of sleep, and when he woke around noon, he figured he could at least see what was on TV about now. He switched it on, then bounded downstairs to set his grilled cheese and soup in the microwave. All of a sudden, he felt  _monstrously_ hungry. Like he could eat everything in the fridge and then some. 

Peter nodded and remembered his earlier excuse for his body's weird behavior. _Right_ , this was puberty. Or something like that, anyway.

Grabbing a bag of plain potato chips, an orange, a packet of the snack cakes exclusively meant for Uncle Ben, his grilled cheese, his soup,  _and_ a tray to carry it all on, Peter took the stairs to his room two at a time. The second to last stair nearly tripped him and sent everything flying across the hall, but somehow, he managed to turn his fall into a flip and catch his tray in mid-air. With wide eyes, he scanned the carpet below for any stains.

There were none.

Okay... _maybe it was time to start freaking out a little?_

Setting his tray of junk food down on his bedside table, Peter sprawls out on his bed and holds his hands over his face, gazing at them. Pretty  _normal_ human hands there. Why was this happening? Why was this happening  _to him_? And  _how_?

Almost as if he was in a movie, a vision flashes by his eyes. All of a sudden, he's back in the General Techtronics Labs, Ned at his left, Betty at his right, and Professor Moore animatedly chatting with a bespectacled head scientist. The rest of the kids around him are ignoring their talk on radiation, uranium, and some war that had happened a few years ago, but he's interested, so interested that he doesn't feel a near feather-light touch at his ankle.

" _And I suppose you'll be monitoring how this project will turn out the next time we find ourselves in the foils of war, Doctor_?"

The scientist adjusted his glasses, " _Not this project, no, the radiation is for something the Beta team is working on, what with trying to genetically engineer traits within certain types of spiders to make a new kind, a new genus. Sort of like playing God, if you ask me. I'm also interested in the radiation for more...personal reasons. The uranium is what we're monitoring in the west wing, however, and it's very off limits to civilians. Can't have you all contracting the illnesses everyone's getting across the Atlantic. Unless you'd like to, of course?"_

Professor Moore had laughed politely and gone on, but the volume started to fade within Peter's vision, alongside his surroundings. Everything fades out until he is left staring dumbly at the past version of himself, inches shorter and wearing those dorky glasses. Oh no. He knows what's going to happen next. In horror, Peter watches as the old version of himself lifts his hand to his face to scratch at his nose and stop at the sight of a red and blue spider that was glowing  _green_. The arachnid reared back in defense as one Peter stared in awe, and the other reached his hand out as if to stop it from happening. The fangs of the Spider descend, and Peter feels himself scream, and _—_

_Brinnnng! Brinnnnng!_

Peter jolted from his place on his bed, eyes shooting wide as his ears caught the sound of the corded phone in the kitchen ringing. Had he passed out again? A swift glance at the clock confirmed that yes, he had, and it was now half-past two in the afternoon, or the time he would have been getting out of school. (You know, if he went, anyway.) Groaning at the realization that he'd have to answer the phone since neither of his guardians were home, he grabbed his tray of food and stomped down the stairs, setting all the extra junk he had grabbed back in the pantry and taking a bite of his double-cold grilled cheese.

Through a mouthful of sandwich, Peter answers the phone, "Parker household, Peter speaking _—_ "

"—Peter," Well, that was certainly unexpected. How did _you_ still know his number? "Where the hell were you today? Was the lab so great you just couldn't face being a high school student anymore?"

He had sputtered, hand tugging at the cord of the phone, "Wha—? No. I'm just...not feeling well, I guess."

" _Poor thing. Is it a cold? You need me to bring you some soup or something?_ "

"No! I'm fine! You don't have to bring anything!"

Suddenly, your Dad was on the phone, and Peter could hear him but he couldn't really _hear_ him because he was getting increasingly dizzy from a tingling just at the base of his neck. He barely managed to catch your Dad saying, "... _over later tonight and you can try it! Oooh, maybe you two could even have a little sleepover!_ "

Oh no. Oh no no no no _no._

" _Dad, if he's sick.."_

The words are fading in and out, and he isn't sure it's due to his fever or anything else.

"... _I took you to the Doctor. And you can obviously take another day off because hey, you'll be sick._ "

" _That's so evil... But I'll go! Alright, Pete! It's settled! I'm coming over with Dad's soup! See you later!_ "

The dial tone was cruel and mocking. Languidly, Peter slumped further onto the cold wall, simultaneously delighting in the chilled surface against his feverish skin and dreading the way it spread down his body in a chill. It wasn't until he noticed that it bloomed down the rest of his back and body that he realized he had slid down onto the floor, arms and legs haphazardly spread-eagle. Somewhere just beyond his head, the phone's dial tone continued its shrill song.

"... _Why me_?"

* * *

Fast forward a couple of hours, and after getting crashed in on by you and actually crashing down on top of you from the ceiling, Peter managed to convince you to have a training montage with a kickass-rating to be determined. He actually had a better grip on his power-set— _if_ , of course, that's what he was calling it now—thanks to your combined efforts, and felt much more comfortable in calling them "superpowers".

Also, of course, he wasn't quite comfortable being labeled as such. He had been the nerdy kid with little to no friends all of his life save for his little league years, and it was sort of... _weird_? To have  _superpowers_. Honestly, he wasn't sure he was a hundred percent fully awake, aware, and cognizant. He could have imagined this whole night, even though he had touched or interacted with quite a few tangible items (not to mention  _you_ ). He sighed. He wasn't sure where to go from here.

The ride back to the Parker household was quiet save for the sounds of the city and the sounds of nature around the two of you. You were the one steering this time, though he was the one pedaling since his legs are now incredibly longer than your own. It was kind of awkward, and he had to stand sort of awkwardly behind you, but it worked. And hey, at the very least, you two didn't have to stand on either of the pedals and hold either side of the handlebars in order to bike... _yeah_ , that would have been the most awkward.

Now the two of you are standing behind his house, similarly yawning as you stare up at his second-story window. You nudge his shoulder with a hand, jerking your thumb up as you ask, "You or me first?"

"You first."

"If this is you trying to show off your super strength again, I'm gonna vomit."

He rolls his eyes, taking his hands out of the pockets of his jacket. "Oh, please do, and just  _hand_ Aunt May and Uncle Ben a reason to wake up and bust us."

Without further discussion, he treads over to just under the window, pressing his back to the wall and popping a squat. You chuckle and shake your head as you make your way over to him, gently setting your right foot on his outstretched thigh, right where his cupped hands waited. On the count of three, he near bounded into a straight stance, almost sending you flying back to the ground on your ass. You glared at him before commanding him to push you further. Peter boosts you higher with a tremble in his hands, laughing as you wobble a bit before grabbing the window sill and hauling yourself into his room. Thankfully the carpet masks you hitting your shoulder against the ground, but Peter still laughs at the sound. You shoot up from behind the wall and give him a glare from just over the ledge before rising and sticking your hands out the window.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying the super strength, you dick,” you grunt as you wave your arms around. Peter blows you a raspberry before sticking his hands and feet to the side of the house, crawling up and rather nonchalantly hopping over the sill. He just barely catches the roll of eyes you direct his way.

“What can I say,” He grins, setting his hands on his hips, “I’m a man of simple pleasures!”

" _Shh!_ " You press a finger to your lips mischievously, tip-toeing to the door and slowly peering out of it. There's a second in which both of you are still, listening for signs of either Ben or May coming down the hall to scold the two of you, but eventually, you close the door gently and triumphantly. "You better be lucky your Aunt and Uncle are still sleeping, kid. We totally could have gotten chewed out for being out so late without telling them."

Peter shrugs, falling onto his bed, "Ah, it's okay. I'll just tell 'em I've got superpowers now and we went crime-fighting.  _Oooooh, so scandalous_."

You flick at his forehead before plopping down near his feet. "Hey, it's better than trespassing... _and_ property damage."

He nodded slowly, letting his gaze go out of focus as he stared at the ceiling above. He catches you shifting out of the corner of his eye, and seconds later, you're sitting criss-cross-applesauce between him and the wall, leaning slightly over his face. "Hey. Spider got your tongue?"

"Ha ha," He deadpans.

You frown, "I'm being serious, though. What's eating you? I thought you'd be running your mouth at this or something. Like, ' _wow, I've got superpowers that'll let me kick Flash's ass for all the times he kicked mine'_! Or, ' _wow, I grew a couple of inches, and now I look way better, maybe I can get Liz's phone number!_ '"

Peter raised an eyebrow and wiggled it at you, " _I look way better_? [Name], have you got something to tell me?"

"No, and don't let that get to your already big head. For real, though: are you okay?"

Is he okay? Physically...of course! Mentally? Not so much. He's honestly sort of stuck between this weird limbo of wanting to celebrate, mourn, rage, and just lie still in his bed all at the same time. (Ah,  _there's_ the puberty talking!) He wants to be pumped up at getting the chance to fight back and gain some sort of status, but he also doesn't want to be.  _He just wants to be a normal kid_. What if this "gift" was more than he could chew? He's only sixteen—for God's sakes, he barely knew the difference between 3rd wheel drive and Four-wheel drive! He couldn't just use these powers to become a superhero or something like he was initially envisioning! What would happen when General Techtronics Labs found out? What would happen when the  _government_ found out? Oh god, what about  _Aunt May and Uncle Ben_? He couldn't use his powers at all. Not for anything! Not for having a slight advantage over anyone for anything, especially not in school! Oh god, _it was a mistake even telling you_ —

"—Pete, you're kinda dissociating on me right now and it's kinda freaking me out," you whisper, poking his shoulder and bringing him out of his nerve-filled wreck. His eyes search your face for any sort of malicious intent, and he sighs when he finds none. Your brows furrow and he takes that as a slight push to start talking.

"I just...I'm  _scared_ all of a sudden, [Name]. What kind of sixteen-year-old has superpowers? You were right earlier: superheroes don't exist. What am I supposed to do? What if I brush past someone on Monday and I knock them down on accident because of my strength? What if I try turning in my missing work to Professor Kelly or Professor Moore and I can't hand it to them because it sticks to my hands? What if—"

You take his shoulders in your hands and shake them gently to stop him from talking, "—Hey, hey,  _hey_ , the keyword you're using here is  _if_ , dude! None of that's gonna happen, and before you ask me why is because I  _know_ it won't. Look, you were totally at ease earlier tonight, and you didn't stick to all that stuff we messed around with, right?"

He exhales, "...right..."

"So, all you have to do is like, relax, I guess. And you'll be fine. Pete, I promise with my life, and on the life of my dog Odin that I will keep your secret safe. No-one at that stupid-ass school needs to know about your... _special abilities_ , not Ned, or Betty, or Professor Moore, or god forbid Flash, Liz, and the rest of their stupid crew. We'll figure this out together, alright?"

He manages a small smile, "Alright."

You grin in response, but it's a little  _too_ sly for his liking. "Plus, I don't need any of those assholes I'm hanging out with the resident genetic freak, you feel?"

Although what he really wants to do is mess with you and make it seem like you offended him, he can't help but laugh at your obvious joke. You join in, and the mood from before—the mood of your definitively kick-ass training montage—comes back in full. The noise fades out languidly, and he rises from his bed to grab a few blankets and pillows to set on the ground for himself. You try to argue that you'll take the floor, but apparently, the look he gives you is enough to placate you into shrugging and falling back without a care. Once he's finished with his makeshift cot, he flicks the light off and dives under the covers. Once more, he's looking up at the ceiling.

 

Again, Peter doesn't  _quite_ know where to go from here.

But he figures, with you at his side (at least, for now), things just _might_ be looking up.

 

 

"Hey...[Name]?"

You grunt sleepily. 

Quietly, he says, "...The Human Spider?"

Despite the cover of night, he can see you lean over the side of his bed to regard him, eyes racing across the room before connecting with his own. Your eyebrows furrow thoughtfully. "... _Yes_."

He grins. Yup.

Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [how peter envisioned the two of you riding a bike (as filmed by ned)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8wJ0Imtnd0)
> 
> ohhoho, we're getting somewhere...! and is that foreshadowing i smell???
> 
> wanted to make a quick note: i love you all!! thank you for your support, and your comments, bookmarks, and kudos!! every time i see a notification for any of those i cry a lil on the inside and a _lot _on the outside haha!! that being said, i'm so sorry this chapter took over a month to write! i started a new job that is honestly not as demanding as my last one, but way busier?? if that makes any sense?? idk. i can't promise when the next will come out, but i already have ideas, so hopefully soon haha. on the other hand, i am posting some new things soon, esp one featuring pbp and liv smut, so hopefully, that might lessen the wait ah__
> 
>  _also also,_ would anyone like a playlist for this?? i keep putting the songs in the titles and the notes, and i feel like at this point i should have a playlist somewhere lmao!! let me know what you all think!


	8. tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes they call it a Tuesday_   
>  _Sometimes I think I am doing fine_   
>  _Sometimes they call it a Tuesday_   
>  _Sometimes it's the best day of my life_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood tunes!: [apples](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/part-one-landmark/pl.u-76oNPbbTveb0jR) | [spoofy](https://open.spotify.com/user/33dgrt7epqd33b3wa9imxgs28/playlist/7oEv96t6IqUWtC24ZKZWb5?si=L6rPHHijRtOzkoGm7iTD8g)
> 
> ♪ Song of the chapter: "Tuesday" - Hippo Campus

You return to a dreary conscious in a room that doesn’t belong to you, wrapped in a thick blanket that also doesn’t belong to you but smells...oddly familiar. Blinking once, twice, three times over even, you slowly raise yourself to your elbows, grunting rather indecently all the while. The room that doesn't belong to you is—despite the clock on the nightstand beside the bed you're on reading 8:15 in the morning— _incredibly dark_.

Beneath you, there’s a voice, “…Ugh. You awake?”

“Unfortunately. How’s your face? And your nuts?”

It only takes a hair of a second for Peter to pop up in your field of view, only allowing you to see everything north of the bridge of his nose. His left eyebrow is popped up, eyes dull and deadpan, “Functioning.”

You snort and rub a hand up and down your face. “Good for you, bud. Hey, I’m gonna change out of this hoodie, it’s stupid hot. Where can a friend get a bathroom around here?”

“Last door on this side,” he describes, sitting up fully. He ruffles his already bed-mussed hair, blinking blearily. “Ah, waking up with spider powers isn’t fun.”

“And why is that?” You hop over him to grab your overnight bag, unzipping it to grab a pair of socks. You were _not_ walking into a stranger’s bathroom with freezing-ass tile with your bare feet.

Peter cocks his head, squinting in thought, “I woke up today and yesterday with a headache and a fever. It went away yesterday after you called, but it’s back again—”

“— _Brothers, sisters, everybody saaaaang_ ,” you warble, twirling as you walk to the door.

“What?”

You throw your hands up in disbelief, spinning around on your heel to look at him in disgust, “Backstreet Boys, you absolute disgrace— _don’t_ tell me you’re an NSYNC pussy?”

“I—wha? What are you talking about?”

“Backstreet Boys or NSYNC, Peter? Which do you prefer? ... _Don’t_ look at me like that. Peter whatever-your-middle-name-is Parker, you _have_ heard of Backstreet Boys and NSYNC, right?”

He nods slowly, eyes darting from you to the door much like a cornered animal, “Yes…What would you say if I said that Take That _and_ 98 Degrees are better?”

 

Having unofficially adopted his nephew quite some time ago and already lived through some of the “dreaded” teenage years, Benjamin Franklin Parker thought he was prepared to see his nephew and his newest friend passed out in similar spread-eagle positions either on the bed or on the floor after a long night.

Of course, the keyword here is _thought_.

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK, YOU DICKHEAD!”

“THIS ISN’T THAT SERIOUS! GET OFF OF ME!”

With wide eyes, Ben leans toward the door leading into his nephew Peter’s room. There are sounds of a scuffle, with things bumping up against other things, the two kids shouting, and even a loud _thud_! Preferring to jump in now rather than when something actually broke, Ben opened the door in a flash.

“What’s going on—?"

Two sets of eyes dart up to him. One set filled with annoyance, slight fear, and awe belongs to Peter, who is currently lying on his stomach on the ground. The other belongs to you, filled with victory, as you sit on Peter’s back, hands binding his own behind him.

“Mr. Parker, are you aware that your nephew has a _horrible_ taste in music?”

Still slightly bewildered, Ben decides to humor you, “Oh? What did he say?”

You shift your weight on Peter, “He claims that Take That and 98 Degrees are better than the Backstreet Boys and NSYNC.”

“Oh, Peter,” Ben clucks his tongue even though he’s barely heard of the latter two and has no idea what the former two actually are, “How _dare_ you. Almost makes me want to not take you two to the diner…!”

He turns on his heel, chuckling under his breath at the wide-eyed look the two of you kids shared. “Be ready in half an hour, you crazy kids.”

* * *

After racing Peter to freshen up, get dressed, and help him clean his room in record timing, Ben drove you all to a Leslie’s Diner that was only a few streets away from their home. It's definitely an old-timey place, complete with neon red lighting, a jukebox in the corner, bright red leather booths, a checkerboard floor, and an eclectic mix of pop art featuring the likes of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Leonardo DiCaprio, Will Smith, the Spice Girls, and more. You can't help but appreciate its charm the moment you all step through the double-doors.

Apparently, Ben and Peter were regulars here, because as soon as you walked through the door, the cook was bellowing, “Ay, it’s ol’ man Ben and Petey! And they brought along a friend! Leslie! Your favorites are here!”

Ben raises a hand in greeting, “Hey there, Dale! How’s the arm?”

“Better than ever, Ben! Better than ever!”

Ben directs you and Peter to sit at a booth closer to the door than the jukebox, waiting for the two of you to settle before sitting on the opposite side. Seconds after Ben makes himself comfortable, a woman who can’t be more than forty-five—and whom you're guessing is probably Leslie of the Diner fame—slides up to your booth, her green eyes sparkling. “Well well well, if it isn’t a few of my favorites,” She grins, “So I’m guessing a sweet tea for Ben, a lemonade for Petey, and what shall our newest friend drink?”

You know she’s talking about you, but it still takes you a second to fully comprehend it. Scrambling, you say, “Uh…water for me!”

"Alrighty! One sweet tea, one lemonade, and one water for the newest guest! I'll be right back!" With that and a cheery hum, she skips off towards the kitchen.

"So Peter, what are you thinking of having?" Ben questions, folding his fingers within each other.

Peter doesn't even look at the menu, he just shrugs, "Sausage omelet, like normal. What are you thinking?"

"Eggs Benedict or the Captain's Breakfast," Ben answers, "Dinner last night just didn't fill me up." He chuckles before turning to look at you, and you begin to sweat just a tad. "And what about you, 'our newest friend'?"

Hastily you grab a menu, which is just a laminated piece of paper with some dishes described on it. Various things catch your eyes, such as the omelet _Petey_ was talking about, or the Captain's Breakfast Ben was talking about, which consisted of sausages, eggs of the person's choice, bacon, toast, a pancake or a waffle, and grits. ...Jesus Christ, who was feeding the cavalry? With a laugh, you set the menu back down.

"Apple cinnamon pancakes or strawberry chocolate chip waffles?" you ask in return, folding your hands in a similar manner to Ben.

He leans back in his seat and grins at your question, waving a hand. "I like both, but I'd rather go for the waffle."

"You traitor," Peter sighs, "Pancakes are where it's at."

"Oh, well that really helped," You mutter in humor, watching as Leslie walked back over to your table, the drinks you had ordered sat atop a platter balancing on her right palm. She sets Ben's sweet tea and Peter's lemonade down in front of them before gifting you with water and lemonade. Your eyes widen in surprise.

"You've gotta try it before you leave," She says simply, winking at you again. She sets the platter down at the edge of your table and takes a small notepad out of the pocket of her apron's skirt. "So, what'll we be having today?"

"Well, we haven't quite decided, Leslie," Ben says, "Our friend here doesn't know whether to get the apple cinnamon pancakes or the strawberry chocolate chip waffles. Can you help us out? You made the recipes for all this food, anyway."

Leslie chuckles, biting at her bottom lip before tapping her pen against her little notebook. "Well, both are good, but _having_ both will definitely fill you up, sweets. How about you do me a favor and pick a number between one and ten?"

Oh god, you _hate_ this game.

"Seven," you decide, huffing a breath out of your nose. You're honestly quite curious what you could be having now.

Leslie scribbles something down on her pad and turns to Ben. "It'll be a surprise. Ben? You want the Captain's Breakfast, don'tcha? Eggs poached, sunny-side up or scrambled?"

"You know me, Leslie! Scrambled please."

"Gotcha! Petey? What are you feeling today?"

"Sausage omelet with a side of an apple cinnamon pancake? Maybe extra whipped cream on the top too?" Peter winks at Leslie, and you fight to hold back a giggle. This kid had no game whatsoever.

Leslie mirrors you and giggles good-naturedly, scribbling that down on her pad too. "Alright, the mystery breakfast, Captain's Breakfast with scrambled eggs, and a sausage omelet with a side of an apple cinnamon pancake with extra whip. Are we gonna need anything to start us off? Like some diced fruit or some hash browns?"

"One hash brown for the table will be good," Ben aquacises, smiling.

"Comin' right up," Leslie nods, turning on her heel to grab the side for the three of you. Dale yells out that he's got it coming up, and Ben leans back in his seat once more, sipping at his sweet tea.

"So, kiddos," He drawls, "How was your sleepover last night?"

He's got this strange sort of smile on his face, one that you think makes him look like he's hiding something from you, but before you can hesitantly comment anything, Peter takes your lead and chirps, "It was fun! I guess. We stayed up all night and watched movies on the VCR."

"Oh? Did Pete show you that Ferris Bueller kid? He loves that movie," Ben chuckles.

Peter's face turns red, "It's a good movie!"

"We did," you grin playfully despite the total lie, "Peter wouldn't stop quoting the movie  _as it happened_. You'd think he was Matthew Broderick himself."

That gets a full belly laugh out of Ben just as Leslie slides up to your table once more, a plate full of hash browns in hand. "One side of hash for the table! You three had some good luck; Irene had some nearly ready as you walked in the door."

"Well, thank you, Leslie," Ben pats the seat beside him and the woman tucks a leg underneath her as she sits. She relaxes into the leather of the booth just a tad, but she's still at the ready for any new customers. "How's everything been going lately? The diner still doing okay?"

"Business as usual," she grins, "We got a feature in the paper last week, and that's doing a lot to help out the diner. And hey, we could always use a few extra hands around here! Just to serve the food and take orders and all that jazz!"

She wiggles her hands to an unheard beat while beaming at Peter, clearly implying he should find employment here. He laughs politely, but it's quite nervous, and you just know that Leslie knows it's nervous because she's backing off with a crooked smile and skipping off to go fill the coffee mug of a woman hunched over a well-worn journal. You half expect Ben to continue this side of the conversation in order to further rib at Peter, but he's rather comfortably leaning back in his seat, hands folded carefully on the table and eyes closed serenely.

"So, are we gonna dig into the hash browns or what?"

Ben peeks open an eye to glance at the plates and wrapped up silverware Leslie had somehow snuck on your table at some point. He nods but doesn't move as his nephew passes the plates and silverware around. "You two grab some first. I'm really looking forward to those grits."

Peter scoops some up with his fork and rather unceremoniously dumps it on Ben's plate, the older man grunting in thanks without even opening his eyes. You hear Peter clear his throat beside you and spot him holding out the plate full of hash browns with raised eyebrows. You nod, unwrap your fork from your napkin, and serve yourself some hash. The table falls silent as you eat, and you're rather grateful for this as these hash browns are the  _absolute most best_ hash browns you've ever had in your life—proper grammar be damned. You practically inhale the shredded potatoes on your first go around. Peter guffaws rather dorkily as he watches, and you elbow him right before he picks up his fork again. Instead of going back for more, you decide to wait and try the lemonade, and surprise surprise, it's just as good as the food. It's not too tangy or sweet, and you'd love to have this on a hot summer day back home.

Ben lazily opens his eyes, smiling as he regards the two of you. There's a brief moment where it falters and nearly slides into a grimace, but the smile comes back as if he never stopped a moment later. You take another sip and Peter continues to eat, but both of you are at attention, especially when his mouth opens and he says,

"Look, I know you two snuck out last night."

You spit out your drink, the bubbles of the lemonade ending up all over the corner of the table nearest to you. Peter doesn't fare much better—he chokes near instantly on his hash browns, coughing up something in his throat before hastily gulping down his own drink to help it stay down. Ben looks amazingly regretful at this, holding up his hands to signal peace after passing you both a few napkins. "Relax, relax! I'm not gonna tell your Aunt May _or_ your father, but I want you two to know that I know you went out last night. Now, I don't know where, and I don't like the fact that you were out all night without telling either of us, but you two are teens that can... _somewhat_ take care of yourselves, and I just want to make sure that you two are okay, you know? I did the same at your age, I know what it's like going out."

"You did the same at our age?" Peter questions incredulously. "You and May are textbook stick-in-the-muds now."

Ben holds up his hands again rather easily, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "We are, but only because we've become parent figures. Practice what you preach, right?" He lifts his shoulders nonchalantly. "Me and your aunt are too old to go out on a midnight adventure like we used to, it's perfect that we are, because you are too young to be doing the same. At least without telling us where you're gonna be, and when you'll be home, anyway."

You bob your head slowly, glancing over at Peter. He does the same with a little quirk of his mouth. "We understand, Uncle Ben."

"Good, because I didn't want to have to ground you. I might be stricter now, but I still have a 'cool uncle' reputation to uphold."

Leslie trots up once more with a bigger tray than before, two massive plates and one covered dish to top. She sets it down on a table right across from your booth and stands behind it, setting her hands on her hips. Pointing at a stack of pancakes, she chirps, "For Petey, the apple cinnamon pancakes with an extra dollop of whipped cream!"

 _Dollop_ doesn't quite fit it. It's more like a  _mountain_ of the stuff, dribbling over the sides thanks to the heat of the pancakes below it. She sets it in front of Peter and he nearly melts in happiness at the scent. Leslie gestures to a plate filled to the brim with sausages, eggs, and everything else you saw that made up the Captain's Breakfast. "For Ben, the Cap's Breakfast, scrambled, and with an extra slice of bacon on the house, of course."

"And lastly, for our newest friend here at Leslie's," she whips the top off of the covered dish, revealing two fluffy waffles speckled with strawberry and chocolate chips with a side of whipped cream underneath, "The strawberry chocolate chip waffles. A good choice!"

She winks as she sets the dish in front of you, careful not to bump into any of the others on the table. "It's a personal favorite, but you could always ask Petey here for a bite of those pancakes. Dale  _might_ have slipped an extra onto his plate by accident. Anyway! Everything looks good?"

Ben raises a thumbs up with a beam, Peter has already demolished one pancake, and you're busy marveling at how pretty these waffles could be despite being mixed with two different toppings. Leslie shows her teeth when she grins, wishing you all a good meal as the bell of the front doors chime again and she's called to wait on a middle-aged couple.

You're still in awe. "This looks so good..."

" _Psst_. Try  _eating_ the stuff. It might be even better."

"Hey, you two, I wasn't finished," Ben laughs, "Try to remember what I said earlier for next time, alright? May and I might not let you go  _everywhere_ , but if it's within reason... You hear me?"

Peter mimics his uncle's thumbs up from earlier, mouth too stuffed to say much. You feel your cheeks heat when Ben turns to you, but you manage a quick affirmation that appeases him. It's only then he scoops up his knife and fork, glancing down at his monster of a meal.

"Well, then! I guess all I have left to say is...'dig in'!"

* * *

Monday that following week everything returned to normal (well, as normal as normal could be, you suppose); Peter and yourself were back in your seats for your morning psychology class, followed by chemistry, and followed up by your lunches. Although he's got some grade-a-big-fucking-news to potentially spill to Ned and Betty, he keeps his mouth shut, and you feel very proud that he took your advice and didn't spill the beans. If he was really gonna use his new powers to become a superhero, it was probably for the better. Secret identity and all that bullshit, right? Right.

The rest of the week passes by uneventfully. Dad gets to work on the fence for the backyard some time mid-week and manages to teach you how to barbecue (burnt) hamburgers on the grill. The burger that neither of you can eat winds up tossed to Odin, who vacuums it and looks at you for more rather pitifully. The latter half of the week is characterized only by a test in psychology that you and Peter both ace with flying colors, and an assigned group project in Humanities with Betty and another kid named Charlie.

It ends up being a whole two weeks after your "superhero training session" with Peter that you wind up talking about it again. Now it's October 29th, a Tuesday. The New York chill has begun to settle in, and the rain today is only making things worse. You kinda hope it isn't like this way in a few days—it's going to be _Halloween_ , after all. You trek to your locker right before lunch and drop off your morning books to swap them out for your afternoon ones, all the while fighting back a shiver underneath your layered sweatshirt and light vest combo. For all the money Midtown High had to throw towards sports and the arts departments, they couldn't devote  _some_ to the heating?

You're pulled out of your musing by Betty approaching you with a soft greeting, "Hey there. Ready for lunch?"

You shrug and snort, "As ready as I can be to scarf down cheese quesadillas. Whose idea was it to take almost everything out of a quesadilla, anyway? That's like...making it a cheese sandwich, basically."

"I dunno, you might wanna take that up with Seymour O'Reilly," Betty chuckles as you fall into step together, "He might fight you on that."

"Seymour O'Reilly can shove one of his precious cheese quesadillas up his nose then."

The two of you share a laugh before going to a comfortable silence as you trek the halls to the lunchroom. Despite a few hiccups here and there, you're hitting your stride here. Flash hasn't terrorized you, most likely leaving that to Liz since you share Humanities. But even then, she's calmed down a bit. At the very least she's taking it out on you and not Professor Mann. Really, you could grow to like it—

—And you spoke too soon. Of _course_!

You and Betty round the corner leading into the lunchroom and it takes all of two picoseconds for your eyes to lock onto Flash, which isn't as impressive as it sounds because he's hunched over rather menacingly in the middle of the hall...practically covered in spaghetti and noodles.

"I thought it was cheese quesadilla day," Betty crosses her arms with a smug grin, "Am I glad it isn't."

You can practically  _see_ the story she's coming up for the newspaper writing itself in her head, and you roll your eyes, "Are you going to get a picture so it'll last longer?"

"No way! I don't want to die as much as the poor sap who covered him in that."

"Wait...that wasn't Flash just being a clumsy jock?"

As if your whispering activated something in this situation to escalate it, Flash turns as red as the tomato sauce coating his hair and face, yelling, " _Parker_!"

You frown. "Oh."

Betty cringes, "Shit."

What did Pete do  _now_?

You scan the lunchroom as swiftly as you can, breathing a faint sigh of relief when you can't find your poor, very unlucky friend. He must have dipped as soon as his reflexes kicked in, and you're very grateful for that. Actually...you aren't. Peter can probably  _pummel_ Flash's ass now; sure, it might reveal his powers, but you'd love to see Flash get served at least some of what he was always dishing out.

"Where is he? Did he dip?" Betty questions, standing on her tip-toes to peer through the crowd of kids a little easier. As if that would help: she's barely as tall as your shoulder.

You nod, "I think so. I don't see him anywhere. You think he's alright?"

"I don't know. I may be hungry, but I'm _way_ hungrier for this scoop."

" _Betty_...oh my god that was terrible."

She wiggles her eyebrows at you before slipping out of the lunchroom, dashing toward a hallway you rarely visit. "Come on! His locker isn't too far from here, I think."

It takes two rights, a left, and a quick duck into the bathrooms to hide from a teacher dashing to the lounge, but eventually, you two find Peter slumped against what you're guessing is his locker, eyes closed as if accepting his fate.

"Yo, Parker," you chirp, "You look like you're going through the five stages of grief."

Betty nods, swiping a finger at the nape of his neck and examining it, "He's sweating  _super_ hard."

"Betty.  _Gross_."

Pete opens the eye closest to you lazily, "Flash is gonna kick my teeth in."

You side-eye Betty, deciding to choose your next words carefully. You can't just outright tell him to use his powers to stop Flash from bullying him in front of her, of course, but you know he's smart enough to dig out the underlying meaning of what you're about to say. "...You should kick his teeth in first then. You know? Stop him from bullying you."

Betty gives you an incredulous look, "Peter's taken this shit from Flash for years now. I think he knows whether or not he can fight him by now."

"Yeah, I do. And I can't."

Ohhhh- _kay_. You put your face into your hands. "Pete," you say, but it's muffled, "Please work with me here."

"This is probably something private, right," Betty glances between the two of you, eyes slyly narrowing, "I should go, shouldn't I?"

"No! You don't—"

"—Yes! You should!"

Betty nods, her grin catlike, "Yes, I should. Let me know when you two... _figure whatever this is out._ I'll try and distract Flash, okay?"

She practically skips off back to the lunchroom, humming all the while. Both of Peter's eyes are now wide and unfocused, and you poke him in the neck to stop him from spacing out. "Use your powers, nimrod," you hiss, "but don't be too obvious about it. You know, like, don't do flips and shit or, like, punch him across the hall, okay?"

Peter gives you a rather wickedly amused side-eye, "You've thought about this?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Like I've said _plenty_ before: if I could kick his ass myself I would."

"Well, looks like you're gonna witness it first hand. He's coming."

 

* * *

 

One punch. 

That's all it took.

One punch and Flash Thompson was. K _nocked. Out._ Knocked out in one punch like anyone against Mike Tyson on a  _good day_. You'd be pissed if it weren't so goddamn funny. The meathead who terrorized other kids goes down after a simple right hook, and if Betty's excited and gibberish-filled spiel to you over the phone later that night was to believed, he had stayed knocked out until an hour before school was supposed to end. Peter got sent to Dean Davis' office shortly after, but guess what? Professor Mann had seen the whole argument and subsequent fight begin, and she was all too happy (as a teacher could subtly be) to inform Davis that Flash was the first to throw a punch and that Peter had only retaliated in self-defense.

"Professor Mann for the win," you grin, curling the cord of the phone in dad's office around your finger, "Karma's a special kind of bitch."

You spot your dad poke his head into the door of the office with a wide grin, "Language!"

Betty giggles on her end, and the sound is offset by beeping on yours. You hold the phone slightly away from your face and glance at the number, getting PARKER FAMILY instead. "Hey Bets, I gotta go. The man of the hour is trying to hit me up."

"Alright! You let him know how proud of him I am, kicking Flash's ass like that."

"It was just one punch, man. That sounds like more of a thrashing, to me."

"Whatever," Betty giggles once more, "See you tomorrow!"

You hit the green call button, hearing the line drop Betty's and pick up Peter's. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again. Goodbye!"

"Very funny," Peter deadpans, "Hey, so I had this idea..."

One of your eyebrows pops up in response, though of course, Peter can't see it. "Oh? And what kind of idea does Mister Strong-Man have now? We go rob a bank or fight bullies on the street?"

"Uh, something like that? Look, I saw this flyer a few days ago, and I had a mildly idiotic idea."

"Well, Parker," you drawl, leaning forward in your chair, "Hit me with it."

He blurts, "I need you to come over to my house. It's, uh...really stupid, and I'd rather have you tell me in-person how stupid it is. You know, to like, prevent me from going out and doing this stupid idea."

"You're just gonna do it even if I tell you not to. But I'm game for anything! I'll be over in twenty. Will your Aunt and Uncle know?"

"Yep. May's even making extra stir fry tonight."

You hang up before he can make a peep (you really ought to stop doing that to him specifically, but it's too fun), and bound out of the office and over to your dad's room. He's sitting on top of his bed with his legs crossed, idly flipping through the channels on his television set. He looks up as you enter, smiling widely. "Hey, kiddo! Wanna watch some  _Friends_ with me?"

"Nah, I'm not really up for it tonight. Plus, the Parker family is requesting my awesome presence for dinner tonight. Peter has something he wants to show me."

"When am I going to be invited to their dinners?" Dad childishly slams his fist down on his bed, grinning all the while, "Why is my kid so much more popular than I am?"

You give him an incredulous once-over, "You know you could always come with. It's not like May doesn't make an abundance of food already."

Dad pets his chin in thought before popping off of the bed, "Call the Parkers. Guess who's coming to dinner?!" 

 

 

"....This is  _not_ what I was expecting. Like, at all."

"Well, I mean..."

" _And_ let's not forget you made this... _costume_ without me. I'm a little hurt, to be honest."

"Well, I thought..."

Peter's visibly struggling and you can't help but laugh. You tell him to relax and that you're just joshing with him as per your usual, and he blushes while scratching at the back of his neck. As soon as you and your dad had gotten to the Parker household, Peter had practically dragged you upstairs and into his room, slamming the door as soon as you had crossed the threshold. He had demanded you shut your eyes to see the idea he was working on, and presented the costume you were currently holding with gusto. It wasn't all that much, mainly consisting of a red long-sleeve and blue sweatpants, with the former being adorned with a spray-painted spider and webbing on the front. There was a blue ski mask to go with the outfit, two holes cut out where you supposed his eyes would be with red spray paint surrounding them in a horned pattern.

"Why red and blue?"

Peter shrugs, sitting on his bed, "Patriotism? Should I spray paint a guy on there too? Since I'm gonna be the human spider and all..."

"Aren't you the human?" You deadpan, flicking your eyes up to meet his, "Patriotism makes sense, but you're missing the white."

" _I'm_ white."

"No-one's gonna know that!"

"I cut out eyeholes! And my hands are exposed!"

"Okay, okay," you giggle, "So was this all that you had to show me? What was your big idea, anyway?"

Peter hops up from his bed then with a little whoop, grabbing a neon orange flyer from off of his desk and passing it to you. He takes the costume from you and ducks out of the room, essentially abandoning you to look over his "mildly idiotic" idea and determine the validity of this attribute on your own. You huff as you look the poster over, which read, "$1,000 to the man who can last three minutes in the ring with legendary superstar wrestler Crusher Hogan!!!" in bright green capital letters. Underneath it gave the date for the match...October 30th?  _Tomorrow_? Ugh, a wrestling match before Halloween? At least it would be on-brand for Peter and his Human Spider costume.

Speak of the devil, he's bounding through the door as you look up from the poster and cross your arms, proudly decked out in his costume. While he looks quite amusing, you can't help but sigh.

His wide smile wobbles a bit in place when he looks at you, at least until he pulls the mask over his face. "So, what do you think? About the plan, not how I look."

You pinch at the bridge of your nose, "...'Mildly idiotic' is putting it lightly. This is fuckin' stupid."

"Thanks," Peter deadpans, his voice now comically muffled by the mask, "what would I do without your infinite wisdom."

"Not be fuckin' injured or anything," you hiss, "You're gonna go in the ring for three minutes with a guy who has probably got two hundred pounds and  _much_ more fighting experience on you, and how are you expecting to get out? _Without_ five major injuries or so?"

He's immediately on the defensive, "Look, it's a way to test out my powers. _And_ it's a full grand to do so! Do you know what I could do with that money? I could make an actual costume, or, or buy a car! I could get a new computer! I could give it to Aunt May and Uncle Ben..."

He trails off then, looking suddenly sullen. You feel a bit of guilt settling itself in your throat, and you frown in response. This  _was_ a pretty stupid idea, yes, but if Peter could successfully use his powers against this Crusher Hogan guy...he could win. Hell, he might even be able to win  _easily_ , if his thrashing of Flash was anything to go off of. You gnaw at your bottom lip, thinking over all the possibilities. He could still get pretty hurt. If Hogan was a wrestler, he was most definitely packing on way more muscle than Peter could have even dreamed of having. If anything went wrong...if Peter broke even a single bone, his Aunt and Uncle would find it out, and they would find out  _why_ he broke his bone, and they'd be pissed, no doubt about it. 

"Pete," you rub the heels of your hands over your closed eyelids carefully, just as carefully as you choose your next words and pair them with the gentle tone of your voice, "why would you want to give the money to your Aunt and Uncle?"

Peter shrugs, looking a little...aimless. He mutters something under his breath, and you don't catch a single bit of it. He kicks his feet as he trails over to you, sitting on the bed a little distance away, but close enough for you to knock your shoulder into his. He glances up at you and shakes his head.

"...This is a stupid idea," he mutters, fists clenching at his knees. "You said it yourself."

You make a sound of affirmation, but raise a hand to express your doubts. "What do I know? _You're_ the one with superpowers. You kicked Flash's ass to the curb earlier, why can't you do it again?"

"Now you're encouraging me? Make up your mind, friend."

He grins as you elbow him.

"Shut  _up_ , you've got your reasons for wanting to do this, and if you think this is the best way for you to achieve them, then I might as well stick around for the fallout. And if this gets you money that could help you or your aunt and uncle, then I guess I would just be an asshole for putting you down, huh? Don't get me wrong, it _is_ a stupid fuckin' idea, but if you think you can handle him..."

"I can," he says rather firmly, "I might come home with a couple of bruises, but it's nothing that I haven't gotten from Flash."

"You could get  _broken bones_ though, dude."

"...Yeah, I  _could_."

Snorting, you lean back on your palms, gazing at him through half-lidded eyes for a moment. He's quite determined, with eyebrows furrowed heavily underneath that mask, fists clenched at his sides, and his posture leaning toward you as if ready for a fight. You chuckle, waving him off and standing up from the bed.

"Don't ask me to reset any of your bones if they do break," you yawn as you stretch. "That shit's gross."

* * *

 

The next night is wrestling night, and over the phone, Peter informs you that he had told his aunt and uncle that he would be spending the night at your place in order to study for an upcoming psychology test. You, on the other hand, had told your dad the truth and nothing  _but_ the truth, and although he was concerned for Peter's health and safety, he shrugged and said, "If he breaks a bone, don't reset it. That crap's disgusting."

Like father like child.

The school day had flown by, and in accordance with his lie, Peter had brought a duffel bag filled with his costume, a second set of clothes, and his actual school supplies to school. Dad picked the two of you up and had taken the two of you to Baskin Robbins as either a preemptive celebration or pick me up, and once you were all done scarfing your ice cream down, dropped you off at the ring downtown.

"Amateur night..." you mumble, looking at the posters decorating the front entryway as you wait for Peter to change into his costume. "Yeah, sounds about right."

"Yeah, some of these guys look like they made their costumes out of construction paper and glitter glue."

Peter's back at your side now, retrieving his duffel from you with a thankful nod. You notice he  _is_ pretty right about these other guys and their costumes; one guy passes by you in just a neon lime green speedo and matching knee-high boots, a darker green glittery mask covering his eyes.

"Who is he? The Masked Highlighter?"

You shake your head, "That was really bad. He's more like Walking Gangrene."

"You know that isn't actually green, right?"

"... _Yeeeeeeeesss_?"

"Next!"

He rolls his eyes as he strides up to a table where a vaguely annoyed woman sits with a clipboard in hand. Her brown eyes give him a quick once over before snapping to you, and she lets out a small laugh once she gives you the same look. "You two realize there's no  _featherweight_ division here?" She grins, getting a laugh from an older blonde woman sat beside her.

"Well, sign me up anyway," Peter puffs his chest out, "The Human Spider's the name, taking down Crusher Hogan's the game."

The woman's eyes dart back to you, and you're torn between giving her an indifferent shrug or a huge shit-eating grin. Something in your mind tells you to do both, and you feel a cringe come out of you instead. The woman rolls her eyes in amused exasperation, looking back to Peter.

"Okie doke. You understand the New York Wrestling League is not responsible for any injury you may," she pauses, looking him over once more pointedly, "and probably  _will_ sustain while participating in said event?"

"Yeah-huh."

"And you're indeed participating under your own free will?"

"Yep!"

She scribbles down  _The Human Spider_ on the sheet clipped to her clipboard, then turns it so that Peter can sign the waiver form. He signs the same, and she raises her eyebrows, but otherwise doesn't say a word as he slides it back to her.

"Down the hall, to the ramp." She instructs, watching as the two of you walk away. "May God be with you!"

The arena is practically roaring with energy, the stands near filled to capacity with roaring and adoring fans and devotees. From what you can glean on a first look, not a single soul in this maw has anything on their person that doesn't immediately identify them as a Crusher Hogan fan, and you roll your eyes. It was just _wrestling_. Wasn't this all fake anyway? Or was that new MMA thing the fake one? Ah, it doesn't really matter.

A few ushers directed the two of you backstage, where you wait as a few amateur wrestlers go on before Peter. The first guy is relatively okay, save for him cradling his busted lip. The second guy limps out about four minutes afterward but looks none the worse for wear. The third guy? Oh  _ho,_ did he not look so hot. It only got progressively worse from there, with it culminating in the final guy before Peter being carted away on a stretcher merely one minute and thirty seconds after he was last backstage, legs bent at odd angles that have your skin crawling. The announcer outside was starting up his spiel again, but having heard it once on the way in and five while you were standing backstage, you've begun to tune it out. 

"Hey, do you think spiders can heal themselves?" You lean over to Peter as the stretcher passes, the poor guy on top moaning about his pain and dazedly asking if you all could see the purple and blue Crusher Hogans yelling at you from the ceiling.

Peter's voice comes out pitchy and breathless, "Not sure."

"Oh, okay." Your fingers drum up an erratic rhythm on your thigh. "...Hey, I bet this is like, fake, you know? Isn't wrestling fake?"

"Did those broken legs look fake to you?"

You're about to sarcastically retort and confirm that those legs were indeed fake, but a good look at Peter has got you second-guessing yourself. His eyes are wild and unfocused as he takes a step to now stand in front of you, digging his hands into either side of his head. His breath is shallow, and he looks like he's about to puke...or maybe shit himself, honestly. You'd be the same way if you were in his shoes. “...dude,” he whispers your name fervently, “What if I don’t win? What if he beats me? What if I _lose_? What if—“

You aren't in his shoes, of course.

But you can still help him out.

“See, what you’re not gonna do is psych yourself out,” you cup his hands with your own, bringing your forehead to his so all he could see was _you_ , and not the flashing lights, or the curtain shielding you, or the people surrounding you. “Pete. You got this, dude. You’ve got super strength and an amazing healing factor, and that guy won’t see anything you’ve got coming.”

He gulps, nodding slowly as he takes in your words. “Oh...okay.”

Reaching up, you flick him in the ear, laughing as he pulls back and flips you off simultaneously. “Now go kick his ass, Human Spider!”

“Hey, I’ve actually been thinking— “

“—Yo, kid,” the announcer peaks his head behind the curtain, index finger bringing his shades down so he could stare incredulously at the two of you, “You got a wrestling name or what?”

“The Human Spider,” you blurt, rocking back and forth on your heels excitedly, “He’s the Human Spider.”

There’s a beat of silence before the announcer scoffs and drags his shades back down his nose. “Oh, that _sucks_.”

He steps back out and begins his rather lackluster introduction of "The Human Spider", but you manage to drown it out as you look back to Peter, who has slipped his mask off to reveal his entire face. He looks down at you with a mischievous expression that's completely different from the shaking mess he was a second ago, smirking in a way that just oozes pure trouble. You brace yourself out of pure instinct.

“Kiss for good luck?”

You scrunch up your nose and curl one side of your lip, shoving him in the shoulder, “Yeah, _right_! Try again when pigs fly, you big nerd.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t say things like that,” he shrugs, that damned grin still painted on, “One day, there might be a Pig-Man—“

“—And if there’s an _actual_ pig-man that flies through the air, and I witness him, then and _only_ then, will I kiss you, you dork.”

His eyes widen comically quick, darting between you and the curtain and the floor and the ceiling and—

“NOW INTRODUCING! ...THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN!”

“I bet that’s you,” you smirk, pulling the curtain back after Peter readjusted his mask over his face, “Break a leg!”

“I’ll try not to. I don’t want to put the poor guy out of commission…”

The second he struts out with his chest puffed out, arms wide, and his stance trying its very best to be somewhat intimidating, you hear boos of the highest degree. The negativity made absolute sense, considering that this very ring was Crusher Hogan’s home ring. Of course, they wouldn’t care for some new hotshot on the block with his head in his ass, believing that he could defeat 267 pounds of sheer raw _dude_.

Smirking, you back away from the curtain and made your way to the stands, finding a somewhat empty spot on the bench furthest from the ring and sitting down. Peter might have been less than half of this guy’s weight just a few weeks ago, but that was _before_. Peter was different now; he may still have been a lanky teenage boy with his head up his ass, but he held a strength you had yet to fully discover, and he could easily evade any of Hogan’s attacks with just a single preemptive thought. He wasn’t just Peter, anymore.

He was the Amazing Spider-Man.

And you came to watch him _kick_ _ass_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter could also be titled, "ben knows what you did last night (but he won't tell may bc he's a cool uncle)" and i legitimately call my irl friends who prefer nsync over backstreet boys "nsync pussies", even though there's not much to differentiate between the two lmao
> 
>  
> 
> Also, in terms of story!
> 
> I'm trying very hard to skate a fine line between the regular 616-verse comics, the Raimi movies, Spider-Verse, and even some of the PS4 game, Webb movies, and the MCU's canons, as I think both RiPeter and Peter B take notes from all of them...hence why I used Crusher Hogan over BONESAW!!!! and a mix of his wrestler suit from the [Raimi movies](https://www.therpf.com/forums/threads/human-spider-wrestler-suit-gloves.273527/) and the [PS4 game](https://marvels-spider-man.fandom.com/wiki/Wrestler_Suit). It's really cool to mix all these versions of Peter into one and still have him feel like he's got my own little touch™ lmao.
> 
> Also also, [_"In the earliest material, Peter Parker was a dick, and that went on long after the mugger got turned in."_](http://sequart.org/magazine/42314/spider-man-was-never-just-the-%E2%80%9Cloveable-loser%E2%80%9D/) Remember this for the next few chapters ohohoho....
> 
> thank you so much for reading! <3 and thank you to those that have stuck around and are still reading even my total absence!! i really don't have a good excuse other than "life is what happens when you're busy making other plans", and i'm so very sorry it's been so long since chapter 7 came out, but i promise i'm not through with this story yet. writing MC, their dad, Peter, and even those asshole bullies is really fun and it's really helped me out with some stuff. so thank you to all of you out there that are reading! i can't promise scheduled updates, but i know that i'm far from over, so i hope you'll hang out for a bit with me on this ride <333


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